


Exploding Head Syndrome

by foolscapper



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Comatose, Gen, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Protective Avengers, Protective Tony Stark, Sort Of, Tony Stark Has A Heart, but it's peter-centric if that's your thing, i'm not sure what to even add here, idk how many people'll be in this but a lot!!!, lots of tony stark and pete and crew
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-05-31 13:06:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 81,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15120032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foolscapper/pseuds/foolscapper
Summary: Tony's having a hard time remembering how he crossed the distance from the grassy knoll to Peter, and he can't really recollect how his hands ended up on either side of the kid's face. Before he knows it, he's gripping the kid's shoulders just as tightly as Rhodey had gripped his own, his hands trembling. "Pete, kid, c'mon. Say something. If you don't say something I'm gonna seriously lose it here. Don't fucking do this."A pair of headphones rattle around Pete's neck. Tony's shaking him.Maybe he'll come to, like a half-drowned puppy you pull out of the gutter.Then just as suddenly he's not shaking him, because Quill is prying his hands back from the kid protectively, and Strange's palm is pushing Tony's shoulder to put some distance between him and the boy. Everyone knows Peter is a special case, for him. A special mission set aside to complete. He promised May. He promised Peter. He held him while he disintegrated. He washed him down a sink and apologized in multitudes. Someone seethes, "What do you mean, he didn't come back? What do you mean?" and he recognizes it belatedly as his own.*******Everyone comes back, when the snap is undone. Or, well — almost everyone.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Basically just my own little post-IW tale to tell, with main focuses being on Peter and the people he's closest to. There'll be lots of other characters in and out of the story, too! As a warning, the story does involve Peter in a walking vegetative state, so if that's something that upsets you enough to avoid it, feel free to avoid it! I can't say how the story'll go, but it centers around that fact. Also I have no idea what I'm doing, forgive me.

It takes two years for them to right everything. Two long years — most of it spent in chaotic shades of tears, screaming, silent defeat, and a very unsuccessful five stages of grief for everyone involved. It's a world where billions of people have all had their candle wicks pinched in tandem between ugly purple fingers, their lights gone out in the pits of their mourning loved one's stomachs. There was not enough time in the day for funerals, not enough room or money for smoothed gravestones, and far too many people that will never, ever be identified as dead. Those people, the ones without families and friends, they simply never existed. Perhaps in the backgrounds of neighborhood photos they weren't meant to be a part of, but ultimately? They are vagabonds who just blew away in the wind.

And those who did have people left behind, who mourned and prayed for them?

They were just memories on walls.

Nobody from their team of heroes took their noses out of books or their eyes off screens, carving out new and old information on celestials, on resurrection, on righting the wrongs done by an arrogant bastard who decided to snap his fingers and purge the universe of any happiness; that same purple bastard had vanished without another word, and Thor had paced through the Avengers headquarters those first days with guilt etched into the lines of his weary face. His brown and blue set of eyes looked into Tony's, and his lips had pulled into something of a haunted grimace, and he said with no ounce of doubt, "This could have been over, had I aimed for the head."

The half of the Asgardians that Thanos had spared came to earth just a few months after; they filled in the broken pieces of a fractured glass Wakanda that had been devastated by the loss of their king. It was an intellectual gathering, more than anything, a concoction of mad sciences that would yield more together than apart. Steve Rogers kept in touch with them, eyes and ears waiting to be sated by something fruitful, about Thanos and his whereabouts.

They didn't need flip phones because they lived down the hallway from each other, and sometimes when Tony wasn't pouring through information with Bruce, he was letting the captain talk his ear off about world news that might matter if Tony would let it. With every passing day, the Sokovia Accords became a relic, something from the old world. The fight in Germany almost didn't feel real anymore. But it was, and it had been the catalyst in meeting a young man from Queens who loved Alt-J and Star Wars.

The scroll bar on the missing children's pages Tony's accrued is so tiny, he can barely see it on his screen. He sits there at the kitchen table while Morgan sits on his lap and slams blocks around like a tiny radioactive dinosaur. And he's tired and regretful as every face seems to blur and morph into Peter's (his goofy shirts, his awful Mets hat, the fifth Jansport backpack that month). Pepper makes Tony coffee, rubs his shoulders, makes breakfast for their daughter. He looks at both of them every day and reminds himself he doesn't deserve them.

Rhodey brings updates from Ross, as an exasperated courtesy more than anything.

Tony also cares very fucking little about that, too. Natasha is in full agreement.

Oh, and the raccoon stuck around, too. Two years, and Tony Stark made friends with a kleptomaniac trash panda who lost almost every person he's ever come to love, and the blue chick might as well be counted among the lost, because she hit the atmosphere running and never stopped (but if there's anyone Tony would bet on for killing Thanos through hate alone, Nebula might be able to accomplish it before supper). Rocket heads out from time to time to try and find clues in the deep reaches of space — "Where's Thanos? Have you seen where he ran off to? Where's that ugly son of a b—" And you know, it ends about as successfully as the last time the little garbage bear rolls back in. Truth be told, he likes Rocket a lot. Good eye for tech, familiar snark used to push people away, a raging hate-boner for a certain mass murderer...

Ah, yes. The bastard who sacrificed his daughter, go fucking figure. Tony looks at Morgan's freckled face as he changes the umpteenth diaper that day and can't fathom the concept of being her end. It's horror fiction, the pages ripped out of books conjured to be nothing more than a terrible daydream of a bored writer. 

It's the same horror fiction where Peter clings to him sobbing for help, falling when his legs disintegrate underneath him. 

Tony looks for that kid everywhere, despite knowing exactly where he is.

* * *

_He waves the photograph in Pepper's face, inches from her, the sharp juts of his fingernails biting into the Polaroid like dog teeth — (retroware, a camera found in a dumpster, delicately and lovingly re-mantled into a working camera, pictures snapped in quiet labs on lazy Sundays where Tony pretends the kid shouldn't be there) — but Pepper just looks at him like he's a wild man, and maybe he is, with owlish imploring eyes and unkempt hair, but nobody is listening, they just talk about their day and nobody is looking at this kid in this photograph: the kid with the curvy brown hair and pinching, smiling eyes and thin lips, he's only a kid, he's missing, does nobody see that? But Pepper just puts her hands up at the sides of her head and shrugs like he's out of his mind, and she's talking about being behind schedule —_

_"Tony, honey, there's nothing there — I don't know what you want me to see." And she is getting progressively more furious at him, because there's nothing, but he can clearly see this teenaged boy's face looking back at him when he turns the image back to himself: he's in the lab, Tony took the picture (say cheese, and the kid said provolone, because he's a massive nerd, but Tony would have done it too, so what does that make him), and no, Peter's not in the lab, he's not anywhere. Not in the ground, not in an urn, not standing on his feet, not stuck to his hands._

_"No. No no no, look at him, why - why are you not looking at him?" Tony asks, curled fingers pecking over the shirt on his chest, right where his blue heart used to be, and he's so fucking angry that Happy said it Pepper said it Steve said it Everyone says it, the same thing, different voices: "It's a black box, Tony. It's just a black box. The picture's not developed. Something got screwed up, sorry."_

_He looks at the photo again and wants to see a black box, wants this to just end, but he knows it can't. In the Polaroid, the kid is tied to a chair in sweltering heat in the middle east, under the shadow of cave walls, streaked with mud and blood and wet from torture, and Tony has it on good authority the human body was not made to live in the sea, not made to breathe the deep dark waters in a two-foot basin of murky water. But Pepper looks right through the photo every time and asks him if he's remembered to water the ugly office plant she put on his desk — he shoves it off and it smashes all over, dirt underfoot crunching with the same texture as Titan. The desk is covered in nothing but Polaroids of every waking fear he's had, but they all swear on their lives—_

_"They're all just black boxes."_

He wakes up with a strangled sound of panic, the sheets ripped out from under Pepper's soft pale arms, and she darts awake alongside him with little choice in the matter. He isn't sure how to even begin to explain the nightmare, so he doesn't, which seems adequate enough for her at this point; she instead rakes kind fingernails over his scalp and he lets himself rest in his own sweat, until eventually it dries up with her ability to stay awake with him. But there's no sleeping now. Which is fine, because not an hour later Morgan's crying in a crib that Tony doesn't let leave their room. She's smart — not quite two yet, but she's got an eye for how to get what she wants. She slaps her hands on the bars like she's a chubby convict and says, "Juice!" like she hasn't already had enough juice in the day to turn into a berry.

"... I got her," he says with feigned exasperation, but more than anything, he just wants to hold onto the kid and remind himself she won't crumble into dust. He walks her through the hallways and stares out large windows, places where the memory of Peter Parker ghosts the halls in Tony's mind. He stands where Peter watched in boyish awe as the jets took off — where he'd lead him down a path towards reports and a new suit. Regrets dance like spots in his vision.  _Run along now, young buck._

He misses the others, too. He thinks about them often, wants to get them back from the jaws of death.

But everyone knows Peter is a special case, for him. A special mission set aside to complete.

There's an aunt across the city that somehow manages to get up and go to work every day. She's all that's left of a family she'd married into — the last Parker, putting unopened Christmas and birthday presents in a room that hasn't been touched in two fucking years. Tony doesn't know how she does it, after the Parkers and her husband's death; perhaps it's not always the abundance of loss that breaks someone; perhaps it's the abundance of loss that helps steel them for the next blow.

Either way, he gives her as many promises as he can muster, and she just nods like she can actually trust him.

"If it isn't the terrible terror," Rocket slurs from the end of the walkway, as he rounds the bend. Tony can't believe his eyes; he's sure there must be some youtube video out there of a raccoon holding a vodka bottle, but seeing it in person is another thing altogether. The short-statured creature adds, "Not the gremlin baby, I mean you."

"Robbet!" Morgan says, gleeful and unaware of just how alike her and Rocket's walking performances would be toe-to-toe. 

Tony is less enthused.

"Did you — Did you fly back  _drunk_?" And really, he's not one to talk after some of the stunts he pulled in his suits, but when he looks out the window there's a clearly tipped over spaceship on the front lawn of the headquarters, almost meeting the tarmac where the quinjet resides. 

Rocket wags a paw at him like he's nuts. "Seemed like the thing to do. You Terran nimrods are  _great_ at it."

"You could've hit the building, you  _jackass_ ," he hisses, "There are people sleeping here you could've killed."

"Wouldn't be the worst way to go out on this stupid planet."

"You're so lucky I'm holding a toddler, or I'd kick you in the head."

"Bring it, old man." But the longer the squabbling goes, the more Rocket seems to completely lose whatever steam he has. They end up sitting right against the big glass windows, and Tony lets Morgan rub her grubby hands all over the panels, because he's pretty sure the cleaners here prefer her messes over the ones Tony leaves in the labs (you know, the ones that almost start fires). The kid eases something inside him, and he's not one to recommend having a kid as therapy (because it definitely didn't solve his panic over being a shit dad), but it at least keeps him grounded. Gives him perspective. Focus.

"Robbet," she commands, fidgeting with Rocket's ear. The raccoon's gotten used to the attention, so much so that he just lets it be, and Tony watches expectantly for words he knows are gonna come sooner or later. This isn't the first time Rocket's stumbled in like this, though he'd hesitate to say it's common enough for an AA meeting. 

"Nothin's out there, Stark," he says tiredly. "Thanos is in the wind after we pinned him in the rice terraces. Nebula's out there givin' her... I was gonna say blood, sweat, and tears, but I dunno how much of her is even left t'do that. But the universe is too damn big." He rubs his eyes tiredly in a way that is obscenely human. "We ain't ever gonna get the bastard, much less reverse the damage. I can't keep putting off..."

"Mourning?"

Rocket and Tony lock eyes for a moment, the billionaire's face unreadable.

Rocket looks away, and for once, he can't usher up a snarky, assholish retort. 

"Mourning."

And Tony could understand that much. The world has already been grieving and crying it out, but the Avengers? They haven't allowed themselves to do it. Scott's got his kid, and he's all his kid has now — the cops had found her wandering a park alone, crying for Ant-Man to save them, and Tony's paid for  _therapy_ but fuck if that always helps. Clint refuses funerals for the two children he and his wife lost, not until Tony can look him in the eye with complete certainty and say 'there's nothing else we can do'. And Tony is not gonna lie about that shit, not even for a moment. Steve always chases for Bucky, and Tony expects as much (both in a fond way, and in a resentful way that makes him wanna strangle the bastard; what, we can't all be perfect at making up)... He also talks about Wanda and Vision and Sam often, and the room always descends into pained silence by the time they both realize how many people they've lost.

"Sorry I called you a gremlin," Rocket suddenly says, and Tony's confused for a moment before he glances over and finds Morgan sitting between Rocket's legs, cupping his furry face in her hands like she's trying to figure out why his beard is so much more out of control than her father's. Suffice to say, the drunk raccoon eventually passes out against the window, and Natasha makes her cameo in the shaded moonlight long enough to click her tongue and heft the creature up. Usually it'd be a more violent affair, but he's so out cold, he doesn't even so much as twitch.

"I'll get him in the recovery position, I guess," she says with a quirk of her brow. 

One time he'd asked her in a moment of admittedly godawful anger how she managed to be a stone-faced robot in the wake of all of this; she had slammed him down onto a table and said it was the hardest thing someone can ever do.

"Could always throw him into a tree," is his reply, and she smirks — but tucks Rocket in, regardless.

They're all he's got now.

 

* * *

 

Two weeks later, Captain Marvel gives them the location of Thanos.

One week after, Thanos is dead and Bruce and Tony are staring at the melted, twisted remains of a gauntlet adorned with six stones.

It's a full month, when the snap is finally undone.

 

* * *

 

"W-what the flying  _fuck_ just happened?"

Probably not the most eloquent way Peter Jason Quill, Star-Lord and fearless leader of the Guardians of the Galaxy, could have reclaimed his life and body, but that's the way it happened. One moment his sinking despair had been blown away in the wind with the rest of his crumbled body; the next, he's gasping for air like a newborn baby with his hands on his chest — unable to breathe, unable to think, unable to do anything but feel helpless and lost. Then his name comes back to him, his age, where he's from, followed by the first of many memories: his mother and him, making cookies with The Rolling Stones blaring on an old radio in the background. 

Then all of it follows like a stampede trampling over each other: the ravagers, Ego, celebrations full of booze and old 70's and 80's hits with his team; he groans pitifully and remembers too suddenly that his mother is dead, Yondu is dead, _Gamora is dead_ — and then he  _cries_ like he's never cried before in his goddamn life. Like, full-bodied sobbing, harder than he's ever allowed himself in the last thirty years. His fingers curl in rough alien soil and every nerve in his body is alight with something he can't really explain, leaving him shivering. When all is said and done, it's cathartic, but his head is pounding and his eyes are red and wet and — and his legs don't want to work, exactly, so he drags himself into sitting and stares all around him with a helpless, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

_Where are the others?_

Drax crawls out from behind the rubble with a bit-back curse as if summoned by Peter's sheer will alone, and Strange floats down from god knows where. Both of them wipe their faces and breathe like they'd just run a marathon, one you'd sprint for — to try and escape the returning memories. The questions bubbling under the surface can wait ( _when, why, how, who, where; where the fuck is Thanos so I can kick his head in and ignore the aching guilt of the stupid shit I've done_ ). Peter's lips curl into a relieved grin despite himself and he staggers to his feet, rushing to meet Drax before the lumbering warrior can collapse on his knees; he steadies the two of them, and between four colt-like legs, they make it work until they can move on their own. 

"Drax, holy  _shit_. I'm so happy to see you right now, I saw you and — where's Mantis? And... Stark and the kid?" 

He's not gonna pretend the last two weren't cliff notes in his order of priorities, compared to Mantis. That's his sister, his family, and his heart is pounding at the thought of losing anyone else from his team... because Gamora's so fresh in his mind, an abrasion so  _new_ and raw and —  _don't think about it, Quill, don't think about it right now, not until you can make it to a ship and find somewhere to lick the wounds._  It's so hard to breathe, so hard to keep his memories in check. Judging from the pinched expression Drax has, he can only imagine the miserable television show going on in that thick skull of his. He had family, he had a life, a home, and now it's all coming back in thunderous waves. 

Drax perks. "I hear her. This way!"

And like clockwork, Mantis sobs more loudly from over the hill of debris, and Peter is already leaping over and down it, displacing rubble in his wake. It claws him up as he goes, but what's one more injury if it means getting to his team sooner? Add another wound to the dozens lanced in his heart, whatever, he can take it. What he can't take is finding someone he loves gone again because he wasn't good enough—

(" _I love you, more than anything."_ )

"Mantis! Shit,  _dammit_ — hang on, we're coming, hang on!" He skids to a stop at the bottom with Drax hot on his heels, and it's only there that he's relieved to find she's unhurt, curled up and sitting on her legs; her back is trembling, hands poised in front of her — no, no, hands pressed to the temples of a crumpled figure with shaggy brown hair and a terribly youthful face. He swallows hard at the sight, guilt coiling in his guts, because he had made this kid a footnote in his concerns all but fifteen seconds ago. _The other Peter._

( _"Peter, huh? Samesies!" the spider kid laughs._ )

The kid is on his back, and his eyes are open, face lax under Mantis' shivering fingertips. Quill automatically assumes the worst: that he didn't make it, because even if his skin has a healthy color, he doesn't  _look_ alive. Why didn't... he come back, too? What went wrong? Crouching down beside his friend, he examines the boy and his listless gaze that looks right through him, right through everything. A death stare. He's seen so many in his life — from ravagers and enemy alike — that he doesn't question it further than that.

"... Mantis, it's okay," he says softly, placing a hand on her shoulder. "He's gone. We gotta move."

"No, no, Peter," she weeps, freezing him with her desperation, "You're wrong. He's still here. I can feel him. But th-there's so much pain — something is wrong, and it hurts."

"She's right," Strange says with a surprisingly soft voice, "He's still breathing."

Quill watches with wide eyes the rise and fall of the kid's chest, and then the surprising drip of tears into the shells of Peter's ears.

"It hurts," Mantis says again, black hair curtaining her pained expression. "He's further and further away. I can't do anything. He is so  _afraid_."

Peter Parker's eyes are open, half-lidded, without any sign of life behind them. But Quill feels like every word Mantis sobs is a memory he can't quite bring into focus... like — like a dream he'd forgotten in the time he'd been nothing but ash. Like a beacon, scrambling all of his senses and blinding him just before he had burst back to life from under the current of death. He remembers a snippet of what it was like on the other side, rolling over and over like he's stuck in a sea — a sea of souls. He remembers it was the _kid's_ voice, calling out from oblivion as they were hoisted back into their bodies.

He remembers hearing his own voice... remembers saying, thinking, screaming:  _Hang on, kid, I got you!_

_— it hurts, it hurts, it hurts—_

He puts his hand gently on Peter Parker's cheek.

It's warm. His body breathes in steady rhythm.

So why isn't there any life behind those eyes?

 

* * *

_The lab is quiet, save for the rambling of an excited high-schooler bragging about their odds at the new decathlon competition. Tony doesn't really mind so much, though he's not about to tell that to the kid sitting there in his old thrift shop sweater; the same kid whose hair is curling out of control now, escaping the prison of hair gel he adds in the early morning. Peter's always so animated with his hands, most of all — always fidgeting, always moving, always so eager to sign and gesture faster than Peter's mouth can move.  "And Ned's got a brand new video-game he's dying to try out, but I dunno if he can handle it; it's a horror game, you know? He's kind of a big softy — oh."_

_Tony glances at Peter with a scoff and a raised eyebrow, though his smirk fades a little at what has drawn the kid's already battered attention span from the conversation. Peter holds an old trophy in front of him that he had taken off the nearest shelf: a replica, actually, but still no less important. It's the arc reactor, etched with those intimate, familiar words that Pepper still whispers to him when they're alone and living in their own little world._

_"Aaww, look at that," Peter says with a playful smile, pressing the trophy against his chest, where the reactor would've resided in Tony's.  "... Proof that Tony Stark has a heart."_

_Peter's smile softens painfully, his eyes reflecting a long and sad goodbye before he crumbles away into nothing._


	2. Chapter 2

Nebula is the next person Quill sees, and god is he glad to see her — something that would've been insane to think a couple of years ago, when she was murderous and... okay, well, she's still murderous, but it's not towards the Guardians. And that's a good enough bridge to make them something more, something good (he used to mentally consider her a... _sister-in-law_ , but now the thought makes him want to shoot someone who'd deserve it in the face, because he can't _think_ about that kind of shit right now). She lands the _Benatar_ on Titan's uneven soil about three hours after they all wake up, which is really nice, because Quill had absolutely no plans on how to get off this shit-heap of a planet.

Nebula's not a hugger, and Quill wouldn't dare try it, but there's a relief and understanding when she steps out into the oppressive, humid air and their eyes meet.

The kid — _Little Pete_ — is sitting beside Mantis on a smoothed piece of metal that probably used to be a chunk of ship, one of his hands sitting limply against his thigh while Dr. Strange holds the other between his scarred fingers. He's quietly trying to assess the rhythm of his heartbeat through the thin skin of his wrist; he ends up having to move to Peter's neck, because the Iron Spider suit doesn't leave room for accurate readings. The spider kid is pliable all the while, blinking lazily every ten or fifteen seconds while the good doctor is adamant about putting his PhD to use — the PhD in actual doctoring, and the fake one he's got in the mystic arts. Quill hates to watch it, honestly, because — because part of it feels like it's on him. He freaked out, he ruined the plan, he lost control (Ego's face overlaps Thanos' — _"I had to, I did what I had to, it broke my heart to put that tumor in her head-"_ ), and now they're awake after two freaking years of _nothing_ , and this kid is sitting here like a victim of wartime with no trace of self in his eyes.  
  
"I've seen such a look before," Drax says, arms folded. "Many times, on warriors."  
  
Peter makes a soft sound of acknowledgement in his throat. "... How long does it take to come out of it?"  
  
Drax glances at him, more somber than he's been in Quill's company in a long time. "There is no measurement for such suffering." And isn't that just the reply Quill was hoping for? No, no it absolutely wasn't, and he thins his lips in helplessness at the scene. Mantis has obviously found some kind of emphatic kinship with the boy, and she leans in and listens to Strange's clinical ramblings with intense focus. Her hand ghosts Peter's, just grazing the skin, as if she's trying to keep him from fading further and further away.  
  
Little Pete had saved her, when Thanos threw her. In the end it didn't matter for any of them, but that's not the point — the point is, the kid threw himself into danger every chance he got, to make sure none of them died. Crumbling into nothing doesn't change that. He had his heart and head in the game, and...  
  
Quill closes his eyes, headache pulsing. "I'm sorry, guys. For freaking out, for fucking up, I just—"  
  
"There's no point in apologizing," Strange cuts him off, not coldly, but not warmly, a sort of fact-of-matter reply that belies no blame. "It was what was supposed to happen. This was our sole victory, the only future that could have possibly worked."  
  
"Okay, cool, but just because something's fated to happen doesn't mean it wasn't a stupid move," Quill mumbles.   
  
Mantis says with cooled sorrow, "It was for Gamora."  
  
Nebula's hands turn to fists at her sides and Quill swallows a lump in his throat, the name immediately raising goosebumps, sinking his stomach, burning his eyes. Dances on terraces and battles scattered across the galaxy like stardust and — and promises that Quill never got to fulfill, promises for things that never would be. The loss is another in a long list that leaves scar tissue, thick keloid nightmares, on his heart. He'll survive, like usual. But he won't like it.  
  
Rough and worn, he mutters, "... Yeah."  
  
And that's all that has to be said among them about that particular topic, right now. The next step is finding Thor, because it'll help them find Rocket and Groot, and then... he's not sure. But what he does know is that they've got a doctor and a kid who needs to get back to earth, pronto. And Quill is not about to ditch these two on some godforsaken planet.  
  
"You two come with us, and we'll get you to Earth in no time," he finally says.  
  
"That would be appreciated." Strange nods. "There's little I can do for the boy here."  
  
"Can you tell what's wrong with him?" Mantis asks. Strange looks at Little Pete, pressing a hand to his forehead, to his temple. It's surprisingly gentle and careful; Quill doesn't remember doctors being nearly so kind, but to be fair, every doctor became 'the asshole who couldn't fix my mom' at some point. They might as well have grown fangs and claws.  
  
Strange says at last, "I'm not completely sure, but if I had to fathom a guess... I imagine it's not something grounded in anything medical. The soul stone might have had something to do with it — it's the portion of the gauntlet that would have no doubt carried out the ebb and flow of our spirits through the astral plane."  
  
"Oh," Quill quiets for a moment. "Oh, shit. Yeah. I remember..."  
  
"You remember?" Strange's brows raise.   
  
"Y-yeah. I remember a little bit. Like, being dragged back through... something. It was bright, too bright to really see anything. But there were a lot of voices, but I could make out the ones close to me — like, um. I heard Drax and Mantis. And then I heard... the kid... I dunno. Maybe?"  
  
"I don't remember anything of the sort," Drax grumbles.  
  
"It's probably because of the 50% of him that isn't stupid," Strange says, and Quill flatly ignores him to continue talking.  
  
"Right. _Anyway_. I remember, I was..." He stops, squinting as if it'll all just come back into focus. And to his credit, the memory is a little less foggy. He can see Peter's wide eyes looking back at him in a veil of orange-tinted mist, but the teenager was staring at him like a deer in the headlights, his body refusing to crumble into thousands of blinding particles like everyone else's already had. Or maybe... _Peter_ was refusing to let his body crumble. "I was reaching my hand out — _for_ him... to try and get him to get a move on, I guess..."  
  
He extends his hand toward the teenager's still figure, sitting in front of him. He doesn't move or react, predictably, but the picture in his head is enough.  
  
"... He said it was hurting." Quill's voice is soft and sympathetic, as he looks at the dirt etching the lines of his palm. "He just kept getting further and further away, and it was so bright, and there were so many people pushing me back... I couldn't follow. I don't remember anything before or after, though. Just... that."  
  
Strange nods as a contemplative silence falls over the star lord, and then looks to Mantis. "... Can you feel anything at all, when you touch him?"  
  
Her hands wrap around Peter's palm, squeezing. "I have not felt anything in some time, now."  
  
Quill has a feeling the kid's not coming back, either. Not like them.  
  
But there's no point in dawdling, and Strange stands Little Pete up (the name's catching on) and helps walk him toward the ship with easy steps. It's weird to see something so shell-like move, shambling like a corpse from an old zombie flick — he watched Night of the Living Dead with his mom and couldn't sleep alone for a week straight, and now he feels that same uneasy clench in his chest, which isn't really fair to Pete. The ship is as they'd left it, funnily enough; Nebula hadn't changed a single thing about the set-up. Maybe it's because she needs so little to function, she doesn't bother upsetting the ecosystem. But Quill likes to think she wanted to keep it nice and familiar and cozy for them, when they came back.  
  
"What now?" she says, glancing at him.   
  
"First, I'm gonna make a few calls to earth," he says, buckling in for take-off. "Then you're gonna tell me everything that happened since we dusted."  
  


* * *

  
  
Make no mistake, Stephen Strange did not _enjoy_ being the hard-ass with a mission. He did not enjoy going toe-to-toe with Stark like some kind of alpha dogfight, because he knew that at the end of the day, they both had wanted the same thing, essentially: peace, safety, a world — a universe — that is defended and safeguarded from the worst of what was out there. Their ideas for doing so were different, mind, but their hearts were at the same board meeting. And make no mistake, though Strange was willing to lose comrades in this and choose the stone over Stark or the boy, it didn't mean his heart didn't ache for the kid who had been dragged into all of this. Looking at him now, lost somewhere he couldn't reach, was igniting every surgeon's nerve in his body. This wasn't something an operating table could fix, and the shaking hands digging through the _Benatar's_ medical supplies could do little other than make sure he was physically alright.  
  
Mantis can't do anything other than hover, and Strange doesn't mind the company, however odd the young woman was. The antenna on her head and her coal-black, full eyes were far less jarring to him than her awkward social mannerisms, and he spends some of his time in-between checking up on Peter Parker to talk to her about anything that came to mind: answers about earth, about his powers, cleared up confusions on where handshakes originated from. She's a good spirit who has her heart in the right place, so he can see why she gravitated towards Peter's side.  
  
"I managed to get in contact with this place, uh — Wakanda?" Quill calls back from over his shoulder. "They're the only bozos down there with decent reception, go figure. They're playing a game of telephone with me and Stark right now, and I guess Groot and Rocket are safe, but they're already back in New York City with a bunch of those Avengers guys."  
  
"Thor's Avengers," Mantis says cheerfully, as Stephen turns his attention back to Parker. It's a bit cold in the medical area, so he nudges his cloak until it gets the hint and leaves him, to curl around Peter's shoulders. As he sits near the unresponsive boy with little else to do but wait, he glances back to Mantis with interest he'd kept at bay until a more appropriate time.  
  
"So you're an empath."  
  
She looks at him, eyes dark and rounded with something close to innocence. It's not a common sight, around such weathered fighters, and her movements are slow and non-threatening as she considers his words. "That is correct... I feel feelings. I can sense things, sometimes."  
  
"You knew when people were dying," he responds with kinder cadence.  
  
"I suppose I did... there was a feeling of... despair. It was distant, but it grew and grew before..."  
  
"I see."  
  
"I wish I was able to do more. I was not very much use, when we were fighting Thanos. I felt helpless, with my abilities as they are. And now... Little Peter... I just sit and listen for his fear or pain, but nothing has happened since Titan. It feels like I should be able to do something, but I cannot."  
  
Quill's head turns just slightly from the pilot's seat. Strange sees that he's listening, solemn. But the answer is easy, however, and Strange replies with little room for doubt, "Don't disparage yourself, Mantis. Your powers are both unique and important, even in times of war... Listening to someone's heart is one of the most powerful things anyone can do."  
  
She smiles, before her eyes are drawn to his oddly marked hands. "May I?"  
  
He offers his trembling palm upward without fear of baring anything he wouldn't otherwise, and she takes it, enveloping his knuckles in soft, warm hands; they've seen little manual labor, if any at all, and he supposes that makes sense. Her master, from what little she told him in the last few hours, sounds like someone no being should ever have to endure. Her antennas glow softly in the cool colors of the interior ship; in the corner of his eye, he sees Quill turning more fully to watch them. She says, eyes closed, "You are calm, but worried. And you are reminiscing... fondly of someone, but they're gone now. They inspire you to stay determined, though."  
  
Strange smirks a little, the hand in his not calloused, and yet so familiar now. "I think she would have liked you a lot."  
  
"I hope so! I would be happy to make new friends, like I have today. You and the Iron Man, and — and Little Peter."  
  
Little Peter does not so much as twitch.  
  
"If only there was a way to bring him back to himself," Drax says, chewing loudly on food rations; Strange is not a fan of the texture. Bit too chalky. The muscular warrior squints at Peter, then looks to Strange like he's perhaps found a solution to the whole problem. "Would he react if I suplexed him?"  
  
"You are not _suplexing_ anybody!" Quill blurts, standing up from his chair to wander over.   
  
"I am just trying to help!" Drax complains, hands out in front of him. "He's very durable!"  
  
"You're not suplexing a catatonic teenager," Strange says tiredly, pinching the bridge of his nose. The Ancient One is laughing at him from somewhere out there in the cosmos, he's almost _sure_ of it. Meanwhile Quill nudges passed Drax with a roll of his eyes, turning his full attention on Parker's expressionless face, on his prone, iron-gloved hands. The annoyance left over from Drax fizzles as he studies the other Pete. Then he sighs through his nose, looking at the kid with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.  
  
"These guys, am I right? I bet you're sick of this whole trip by now."  
  
It takes Strange a moment to recognize Quill's efforts as he sits crouched in front of Parker, but he appreciates them.  
  
"Hang in there, kid... It's gonna be a kinda long ride to Earth, and between you and me, space can get kind of boring the more you float through it. Especially on a road trip." He fidgets with a decently crafted pair of headphones he'd retrieved from the captain's chair, and the others fall silent as he slips them over Peter's boyish ears, _Mr. Blue Sky_ muffled as it plays; it's a gentle sort of moment that Strange finds rare and difficult to ascribe feelings to, watching the small crew huddle with some semblance of hope and optimism for someone who may very well be completely lost to fate.  
  
Perhaps he'd had too fast of a knee-jerk reaction to the Guardians of the Galaxy, after all.  
  
Not an hour and a few Paul Anka songs later, Peter Parker is curled up in his seat, swaddled in a determined red cloak and, one could only hope, listening to the distant melody of earth and all he's left behind.


	3. Chapter 3

"I can promise you, it's no mistake — the Guardians and those who were behind on Titan, they will be arriving on Earth sooner than later," T'Challa later tells him, over the translucent feed glowing from the center island of his work space, and Tony's eyes flutter closed with overwhelming relief. Watching transfixed as the people he cared about reappeared in his life, sprouting like seeds after one _hell_ of a metaphorical volcanic eruption? It was almost too much. He'd lived with the deaths of billions for far too long, and though the world is alight with celebration and confusion and everything in-between, the feeling hadn't settled between Tony's ribs until Sam Wilson walked his way into the room with a lopsided grin, or when doors parted and Wanda's furrowed brow and uncertain expression graced the halls of the headquarters.  
  
People were _alive_ again, and all it cost Tony personally was a broken arm and leg and ribs and — okay, the healing process wasn't the best, but Wakanda sure did make it easier. Everyone had hoped the snap would be set straight the moment that purple bastard's blood bleached the ground, but not so — no, it took another month just to figure out how to reverse it, none of which would have been possible if not for Captain Marvel. She'd come and gone like an angel, and if Tony were a man toeing the line for an early grave, he'd offer a smooch of gratitude. Italian-style. He's got at least 10 or 20% in his bloodline somewhere.  
  
She'd taken the Power Stone and vanished into the stratosphere (too literally) with it.  
  
That leaves five stones that needed to be displaced securely. Thor would see to the Reality Stone. The Guardians wanted to return the Soul Stone. And of course Strange had a raging boner for the Time Stone. The Space Stone... The Mind Stone... who knows. Still working on it.  
  
But Tony couldn't care _less_ about those shiny bits of misery; he's given up enough of his time the last two fucking years (and then some) in a cold sweat about stones that he'd lob into the sun if he could. No, he wants to see Peter. That's the last piece, the thing that he tosses and turns over, the one good thing that came out of Germany that day — meeting this kid, but also damning him by proxy, and fuck if he didn't want to fix that. Once Peter is back home with his ridiculously attractive aunt, goofing off and building weird robots with his pal Fred, stammering about some girl that looked at him funny while he helps Tony in the lab... that's gonna be the real endgame. That's when it all actually ends and he can close his eyes and actually _rest_.  
  
"I'm eager to finally meet this kid without a mask, after all proud parent talk," Steve says from the couch in the break room. He hadn't been able to stand for very long anymore after what Thanos had done to his knee a month back, but Tony's at least helped hook him up with a prototype brace he'd started way back when for Rhodey. It whirs a little when he straightens his leg out. Despite the new scars that grace them — one on the arm here, another on the forehead here, the imprint of a stab wound—  
  
Wait a goddamn minute. He glowers at Steve.  
  
"It's not ' _proud parent talk_ '."  
  
"If it quacks like a duck," Sam says as he walks by with a cereal bowl, like he's drifting along on conveyor belt that dispenses wise cracks.  
  
"Begone, Wilson, you wretched creature," is the apt reply, as Tony wags a hand for him to leave (he already has). "And he's a — good kid, so yeah, maybe I talked up a big game for him so he starts off on the right foot. Someone has to prep you so his awkward puberty-stricken self doesn't ruin his credibility right off the bat." Steve just shakes his head, smiling at the ground. He looks so much younger than he had even just a couple months ago. But maybe that's all of them. There's a light in their eyes, a feeling of victory they hadn't felt in over two years.  
  
_We've won._  
  
Vision would think so, too.  
  
Him and his stupid sweater vests, and his terrible cooking, and his scarring everyone else by ignoring doors.  
  
... He'd be proud of them. Tony's sure of it.

 

* * *

  
  
_"Aaww, look at that... Proof that Tony Stark has a heart."_  
  
And then, gone. Every night.

 

* * *

 

His heart is hammering in his chest when the _Benatar_ touches down on the central landing pad, which is stupid and unprofessional; Tony Stark does not anxiously flutter around like a student worried about their test grades; he scores 101% every time. But now he's here, and his palms are sweating, and Pepper is telling him it's gonna be okay — _"Mr. Stark, I don't feel so good."_ — and to relax before he sprouts a couple more gray hairs to add to the others — _"I don't wanna go, please, sir, I don't wanna go...!"_ — and Rhodey grips his shoulder, tight enough to hurt. He blinks.  
  
"Hey," is all his friend says, but it grounds him. Tony nods. _I'm alright._  
  
There are few people in the facility that are aware of the post, or traumatic, or stress. Pepper and Rhodey and Happy are his key confidants when he detaches from all common sense and loses himself to places like Kunar, or the emptiness of space, or — or places like Titan. It's gotten better, but only before it's gotten much worse, and the months that followed the dusting of half the universe he was hardly capable of handling standing on his own two feet, let alone moving to solve anything. "Hey, it's all good," he'd tell them at 3 a.m. in the lab, "I took a Xanax."  
  
Beside him, Rocket and Groot stand transfixed, and Tony can only imagine how much more wrecked Rocket is about all of this — it's been two years since he's seen his family alive. He honestly wasn't sure if they were going to be able to pull him away from the tree-kid when he'd been flown back in, and though the raccoon will never hearken back to that moment he'd cried into Groot's chest, it'll at least be a reminder that good things come to those who wait. And drink excessively.

The doors of the _Benatar_ open to a field littered with curious Avengers and workers, and the first to step out is Drax and Mantis — well, more like rush out, and Groot and Rocket are running to meet them with outstretched arms, as you'd expect from sweet reunions; and yeah, Tony's glad, Tony's grinning. More good news playing out right in front of him, fruits of their overworked, overwrought labor. From where they all stand, they can crane their heads to the side and listen for Rocket's wobbly, teary berating: "You freaking morons! How dare you guys just go off and get yourselves killed — this is what happens when you're not being babysat by yours truly, you bastards, you — "  
  
Quill emerges from the shadows of the craft's interior soon after, a sad smile gracing his lips as he drops a hand on Groot's jagged scalp. Not quite a whole family. Tony can see that in the weary lines of Quill's face. And he hasn't forgotten the desperation he himself felt, knowing that the Star-Lord had been one step away from exploding on Thanos back on Titan... knowing there was no way to turn the tide in their favor, once the floodgates were smashed into chalky bits.  
  
Quill turns, locks eyes with Tony, and... something shifts in his expression. Something drops.  
  
Worse —  
  
_Something is wrong._  
  
The thought occurs to Tony, the moment he realizes that _nobody_ should've been leaping out of that ship before Peter Parker. That kid had a hell of a time on Titan, yes — that'd be an understatement. But he's _Pete_ , the teenager who can't seem to sit still for five minutes, the plucky one with a five-mile long list of shower thoughts and embarrassing factoids, the pain in the ass who doesn't do a single thing he's told, because he's going through a super-teen rebellion phase. Tony's worked too closely with him the years before Thanos; he knows him too well; he'd be out here already like a lightning bolt, smiling like nothing's wrong and cashing in on a real hug for once (and Tony'd let him and pretend it was grudgingly, but everyone knows better)—  
  
_(— nobody is listening, they just talk about their day and nobody is looking at this kid in this photograph: the kid with the curvy brown hair and pinching, smiling eyes and thin lips, he's only a kid, he's missing, does nobody see that? But Pepper just puts her hands up at the sides of her head and shrugs like he's out of his mind, and she's talking about being behind schedule —)_  
  
He _dreamed_ this, like he dreams everything.  
  
Quill steps toward Tony and away from the Guardians as they stand on the ship's ramp, one hand out, placating, brow furrowed. "Stark, man, I'm sorry; we didn't want to tell you over some shitty line, but there's something..."  
  
His voice tapers off as Strange and Peter walk out from the darkness. Peter isn't smiling, he isn't frowning, he isn't anything. He's just looking at Tony — _through_ Tony — and the scarred hand on his shoulder is doing all the leading. What do they mean? Something's _what_? He's whole and healthy, isn't he? There's not a scratch on Parker's head, not like the scars the Avengers have collected the last couple of months. He's _fine_ , he's _safe_ —  
  
_(No. No no no, look at him, why - why are you not looking at him?" Tony asks, curled fingers pecking over the shirt on his chest, right where his blue heart used to be, and he's so fucking angry that Happy said it Pepper said it Steve said it Everyone says it, the same thing, different voices: "It's a black box, Tony. It's just a black box. The picture's not developed. Something got screwed up, sorry.)_  
  
"Tony, something went wrong," Strange starts, in rhythm with the pounding of Tony's heart. "He didn't come back with the rest of us." If he doesn't breathe right now, he won't stay upright for long. Peter's eyes are looking right through him, and his arms dangle at his sides, which doesn't make any _sense_ , because that kid could never keep his arms still for five goddamn seconds—  
  
( _"Could you not move while I adjust these? Lord, do you want to plummet to your doom because they jam?"_  
  
_"Oh, oop, sorry, Mr. Stark!"_ )  
  
Morgan whines uncomfortably in Pepper's arms, tired of standing in the heat. "Mama, m'tired."  
  
Steve hobbles forward, and he's saying something, but Tony can't hear it anymore.  
  
Peter was the endgame.  
  
Tony's having a hard time remembering how he crossed the distance from the grassy knoll to Peter, and he can't really recollect how his hands ended up on either side of the kid's face, looking for any sign that things are actually messed up — but before he knows it, he's gripping the kid's shoulders just as tightly as Rhodey had gripped his own, his hands trembling. "Pete, kid, c'mon. Say something. If you don't say something I'm gonna seriously lose it here. Don't fucking do this."  
  
A pair of headphones rattle around Pete's neck. Tony's shaking him.  
  
Maybe he'll come to, like a half-drowned puppy you pull out of the gutter.  
  
Then just as suddenly he's not shaking him, because Quill is prying his hands back from the kid protectively, and Strange's palm is pushing Tony's shoulder to put some distance between him and the boy. Everyone knows Peter is a special case, for him. A special mission set aside to complete. He promised May. He promised _Peter_. He held him while he disintegrated. He washed him down a sink and apologized in multitudes. Someone seethes, "What do you _mean_ , he didn't come back? What do you mean?" and he recognizes it belatedly as his own voice.  
  
"Tony, look at me," Strange orders, and usually Tony would tell someone like the good doctor to shove his orders up his own ass, but for once he listens. Quill and Strange stand like guards posted at a gate, safeguarding the unresponsive boy, and Tony's senses come back to him like eardrums popping on an airplane. Strange continues in that agonizingly calm way, "You're having a panic attack. You're no good to the kid like this."  
  
He takes a step back, eyes burning, tongue heavy in his mouth. Usually, he has a funny quip he can sling to defend himself, or some jagged-edged retort that's bitter enough to cut through just about anything. But he has nothing to offer, right now. He just stares blankly, remembers how to breathe again, and turns his head away. _Focus. Focus. Okayokayokay, you're a billionaire genius with a complex full of smart-asses, you've got magical glowy rocks, you've got Wakanda on speed dial._  
  
"What _happened_?"  
  
Answers, he needs answers.  
  
"He is not in there," Mantis meekly replies. It's not the answer he's looking for.  
  
" _Judging_ from what we've gathered," Strange clarifies, "His body has likely somehow resurrected — without his mind."  
  
"What does that _mean_ , exactly?" Happy asks, voice edged with frustration, with disbelief (when did he get there? when did he end up standing beside Pete with his hand hovering so helplessly?). "How does that _happen_?"  
  
( _"I don't feel so good."_ )  
  
"Get him in the medical wing. _Now_ ," Tony orders, cutting through the quiet. He is more than ready to bury the coiling, ugly panic brewing under the surface now, turning to Bruce — who stands sheepishly to the side, concern and sympathy casting shadows on his face. He's told him plenty of stories, told him how excited Peter was to ever get the chance to meet him. The kid loved Bruce Banner more than he loved the Hulk; Bruce was beyond happy to hear it, smiling down at his work. Thor's not here — he's not here yet. Pete wanted to meet Thor, too. He wanted to meet everyone, without the mask.  
  
And that 'everyone' is here now, looking at him with little else they can do (this isn't a battle, they can't _fight_ this), and Tony grits his teeth and promises Peter one more thing: he's not gonna lose it right now, when he needs him the most. He turns and plants a firm hand on Pete's shoulder again, this time looking into his eyes and steeling himself for the way nobody looks back. He tells Bruce, "I'm gonna need your help again. If this little asshole thinks he can Casper out on us, he's got another fucking thing coming."  
  
He'll have to call a rain check on that whole concept of _resting_.  
  
Good to know his nightmares are as _reliable_ as ever, though.


	4. Chapter 4

What happens when you pile a bunch of doctors into a medical wing with a catatonic spider-kid? A hell of a lot of things going on at once, it turns out. Bruce can't complain about it, because it at least keeps him focused on anything other than himself; life has been one big roller-coaster he hasn't been able to get off of since Ultron (no, wait, way before that), and all he wants is to sit in a lab and work on anything that isn't his own self-worth and mental capsizing. Two years killing aliens for sport as a gladiator will do that to you. Yeah, he still hasn't figured out how to work with this, so he just went ahead and put all that in a way-too-small box in his brain.  
  
_Hooray for compartmentalizing._  
  
Back to work.  
  
Cho has already gently pulled a sample of Parker's tissue from one of his arms to study his particularly complex cell structure, as is her particularly crucial talent, and Strange has returned from his own collection of ancient texts, Wong hovering at his side to offer whatever knowledge he can in the ways of the soul — to which Bruce knows Tony's grateful, but he also is well-aware that the man is running on fumes by the third day of diagnostics. The genius had been animated with the news of Peter's return, and that scene outside is still fresh in his mind as he eyes the reports that have come back from MRI scans of Peter's brain. There's no damage, no signs of anything that would cause this kind of dramatic loss of self, which Bruce semi-expected with the way Dr. Strange had gone on about the potential effects of the stones on a kid like Peter.  
  
There are variables. It's possible someone did this to him — that he was targeted, that maybe Thanos did something specific in the snap that left Peter completely vulnerable to complications. That doesn't too much sense in the grand scope of things, but surely the madman had some range of control over who stayed and who went. The thing is, Thanos was dead. This shouldn't be a complication. Should it?   
  
Perhaps it's someone outside of Thanos. Someone from his roster, maybe. But that would also be an odd way to handle payback, especially when the Guardians and Strange were also at their mercy. Bruce didn't rule out the possibility that something from the planet itself might have effected Parker, especially when Titan may very well effect every one of them differently. Strange collected some of the dirt and debris carried over onto the  _Benatar_ , and from Peter and Drax's boots, but the results of the study yielded very little.  
  
"He's not completely human, that much is certain," Cho says, not unkindly. "If you look at the way his DNA is structured, it is much different than any string I would pull from myself or any normal boy off the street. But if there's a correlation with the way he's reacted to resurrecting, I have not found it yet."  
  
Bruce glances at Tony, biting his lip. "His brain scans are clean, too. I've sent everything to Shuri, though, just in case they can find something we don't. Which, you know, is a... pattern... lately..."  
  
Tony was up at all hours after the kid had been put to bed, compiling all manner of documents highlighting medical complications and disorders of the mind, and at this point Bruce is tempted to lock him out of the lab (though he's also more than aware he may also be punched in the teeth for it, and the last thing anyone needs is for Hulk to finally decide to pop back in)... Three whole days, though. It's not healthy, and yes, he's not the pinnacle of good mental health himself, but...  
  
He twiddles with a pen in his hands, once the two of them are alone (well, Peter is here, too... so they're alone enough).  
  
"Hey, we've got this. You're not gonna be any good to this kid if you're passing out mid-conversation."  
  
"We've got a bigger problem than that," Tony mumbles, rubbing at the exhaustion all over his face. They're both sitting at a counter near the lounge chairs; why aren't they sitting on the lounge chairs? Bruce is seeing a missed opportunity for comfort here. Peter has the right idea.

Tony adds, "... He hasn't eaten anything."

And okay, that is a pretty important thing to bring up. He'd been putting it off in the hopes they'd find something sooner, to avoid what he figured might have to be done. But even with practically living in the lab with this unresponsive kid, they're no closer to closing in on what's making him tick — or  _not_ tick, in this case — and resources are waning. Bruce bites his lip, not happy with what he'll have to say. "He's going to need a temporary feeding tube of some kind, soon. Until we can get any kind of result."  
  
"Oh, god." And Bruce sees in his friend's eyes, the slow unraveling that comes with helplessness. He wishes there was something he could say that was any more calming, but the fact of the matter is that Peter is his patient for the meanwhile, and he has to say exactly what's in the kid's best interest, whether it's emotionally draining or not. He's tired, they're all tired, Peter's  _probably_ hungry, and  _nobody_ wins in this situation.  
  
"He's not a _typical_ case, either. His metabolism is too high to do anything different, Tony, I'm sorry. He's already losing way too much weight for just being a few days back, and IV drips are only gonna get us so far. Even if he's not mentally there right now, it's not humane to—"  
  
Tony's fist is a sharp, echoing sound against the metal table under his arm. "I  _know_ , alright? I  _know_!"   
  
A silence falls over them where they sit, and Peter — as always — only blinks and breathes where he sits nearby. It must be so much, to watch someone you love look like this for so long. Too long. Every glance in the boy's direction is a reminder of just how powerless they can all be, despite their collective minds, their hours and hours of best efforts. Bruce leans back, almost affronted by the simmering heat in Tony's rounded shoulders, tapping his pen to his teeth a few times before he says with a raised brow, "... Are you gonna hulk out on me? Do I need to get the armor out?"  
  
It works enough to tame the beast. And maybe even earn a hidden, miserable smile as Tony's face descends into shadow behind his fists. " _Ha, ha._  Very funny."  
  
More softly, Bruce replies, "... It won't be a big deal. It's an hour-long surgery at most, and it's extremely noninvasive and basic, and Cho can do it in her sleep. It's just a little button, practically — you won't even notice anything's any different, and he'll be all the more healthy for it, right? It's for Peter's well-being."  
  
Tony cards a hand through his hair, looking at Peter, who is sitting as compliantly as the day he'd been walked in.   
  
"... You're a fucking pain in the ass, Pete," he says.   
  
It's a strained response, and Bruce reaches out to cup one of Tony's shoulders. His doctoring isn't just limited to Peter, and he can see just how drained Tony is; he wears the bags under his eyes like a fashion accessory, and while that's usually all fine and good and expected of someone like him, enough is enough. He can't watch his friend self-combust in front of him."And  _you_ need to rest. I'm serious, man. Do you think he wants you to overwork yourself to death here?"  
  
"He doesn't want  _anything_ right now, because nobody's at the door, Bruce. And I don't know what to do."  
  
"Right now? Sleeping is what you do. You're no good to him if you're not at your best." A pause. "I'm getting Pepper."  
  
He stands, and Tony looks after him helplessly.   
  
"No, hey —  _goddammit_."  


* * *

  
  
Stephen has met few as stubborn as Tony Stark, but he supposes that's one reason the earth had ultimately been in the best of hands, against Thanos and his unruly power.  
  
It takes a few arguments and a hell of a lot of coaxing and an unfair advantage of using a two year old baby, but eventually Tony relents with Bruce and Stephen's promise that they won't do anything until Tony can decide how to approach May Parker about this (his aunt doesn't even know, she has no clue, and how are they going to explain to this poor woman that her adoptive son is here but not here at all?). Tony also adds an addendum, that he has to be present for every goddamn moment of any surgery involved here no matter how small, ' _so help me god_ '. It's a fair request, one that Stephen gives his word to honor.  
  
He consults with Cho and Bruce, and they're in agreement: a percutaneous endoscopic gastrostomy, however temporary it is, is imperative for their patient. It would have never been something he would have cared about, in his professional career. He would have not given Peter Parker a second glance in the hospital, would have passed him off to someone else like he had been the most minor of roadblocks. A thoughtful silence falls over them as Dr. Cho talks about their short-term gameplan. Strange admittedly has a lot he should be doing; the Time Stone is back in its rightful place, and the whole world is reeling from the events of the last few years. He'd only given himself enough time to comb through old records at the Sanctum and remind Christine, rather lamely, that he's back from the dead.   
  
She had nearly strangled him in her embrace, but it was a soft moment he wouldn't trade for anything.  
   
"... I'll oversee the surgery as well," he finally speaks, glancing back at Peter. He's been there for every step of the conversation, and part of him hopes that a teenager hearing the word ' _surgery_ ' applied to them will make them suddenly spring to life with anxiety, like a kid realizing he's on his way to a dentist. Nothing of the sort happens, but even Stephen is not allergic to hopeful optimism.  
  
"I can promise you, he'll be in safe hands," Cho says worriedly, but he shakes his head with a raised hand.  
  
"It's not that. I trust you to be knowledgeable; you're a credit to your field. I just want to know for myself as well, that everything goes exactly as expected." If he can't take an hour out of his day to look out for a teammate, then he doesn't deserve to wear the cloak.  
  
"We'd love to have you," Bruce says, then smiles a little. "Are you, uh. Close with Peter?"  
  
He considers it for a moment, and only a moment, fleeting. For some reason, most of that moment comprises of memories, of one Peter Parker excitedly rambling at him about magic and floating cloaks for an hour prior to crash landing. He huffs a breath, almost a laugh. "Not particularly, to be honest. I'd only met him on an alien spaceship a day before we all were killed. But — his involvement in our timeline can't be overstated. And... the kid did save my life. And helped me avoid a great deal of torment. So I suppose he's a temporary... ward, of sorts. I'm indebted to him. What about you?"  
  
"This is the first time I've met him, actually. But... he means a lot to Tony. And..." The doctor grows quiet for a moment with folded, contemplative arms, and Cho and Stephen give him a moment to continue. "And — I know what it's like."  
  
Strange cocks his head. Bruce sighs through his nose, eyes darkening with discontentment. A storm of ugly memories, all kept under lock and key; Stephen knows about the Hulk, of course, but he can hardly imagine the sorts of horror shows only Bruce banner is privy to. The man says, "I know what it's like, to be trapped in your own body. Maybe he's not, not exactly, and nothing like how I've been before, but... either way, he deserves to have it back."  
  
That's all that needs to be said.  
  
Stephen rises to leave after some time and a couple of warm drinks, hearing Bruce speaking effortlessly to Peter from around the corner before he fades further and further from earshot: "Hey kid, you're pretty good at this whole meditation thing; I'm a pro at it, myself. We should go out and get some air, maybe practice on the lawn. You could use some sunlight before you turn into a lab hermit like the rest of us old men."  
  
Wong hovers in the main corridor, newly arrived. A good sign.  
  
Stephen walks with him.   
  
"Anything from the Sanctum about the stones that might help this?"  
  
"Not very much," Wong relents. "What little can be found are based in texts that predate most everything we know as masters. However... I was able to look into what the Ancient One left behind in her many records and found something potentially helpful — and that is not necessarily something about the infinity stones, but about astral projection. I'll have to show you when we return, so you can help me decipher her chicken scratch."  
  
Stephen laughs softly, and they enjoy the sound of each other's footsteps.  
  
"... Do you have any theories, about what's actually wrong with the boy?"  
  
Strange purses his lips, and says at cautious length, "It's all just a theory, but... the woman, Mantis, she had been able to sense him within his body for a  _short_ time, even if it wasn't for long. I think more than anything else, it's possible that Peter returned to himself momentarily like the rest of us — and then panicked and let himself sink back into... wherever we all were."  
  
"Panicked?" Wong's brow furrows. "Over being alive again?"  
  
"... Over the pain of it. Stark had a hard time talking about it, but from what I can gather from his recollections, Peter's death was extraordinarily different from the rest of us. He felt that something was wrong before he'd passed, and it took him much longer than the rest of us to die. If I had to fathom a guess... I think maybe his composition was his own undoing. He's a scared child who couldn't cope with re-living that moment of suffering."  
  
"And what is the solution to that? Is there any?"  
  
Stephen looks to the side, where Bruce and Peter are resting in the sun, not too far from where the  _Benatar_ had landed — with them and bad news. For a moment Stephen worries about the safety of a mentally lost boy and a doctor sorely lacking in control over his green rage-monster, but then he notices the blot of red on the rooftops — Natasha Romanoff, accompanied by a suited-up Sam Wilson, watching with bird-like eyes over the resting figures.   
  
Stephen smiles faintly despite himself.  
  
"None that I can offer anyone right now. There may not  _be_ a solution. Even the Scarlet Witch couldn't find any foothold in the kid's mind... There's no link that we can find between him and the physical world. But if there's any hope at all, and if all else truly fails... my personal bet is on the Soul Stone."  
  
Though maybe — and this is a fluttering, unprofessional thought in the grand scheme of things — the extended hands of Peter Parker's worried team may be part of that solution, too. Stephen makes a mental note to compile as much as he can to give to Stark from the Ancient One's writings. And he gives silent thanks to her, that even after her passing, she's managed to help provide obnoxiously useful words of wisdom, be it in slowed thunder storms or old, time-stained scrolls.  
  



	5. Chapter 5

The last two years have been the hardest years of her life.  
  
Maybe it's a little cliché for someone in her position, but May hadn't been actively seeking out having any children with Ben, even after they'd decided to get hitched. She'd grown up fairly isolated from a family that was absolutely  _terrible_ at dealing with their own kids — really, it's a miracle she came out halfway decent — and meeting the Parkers and their small baby had not endeared her to the idea, at the time. It wasn't that she didn't like children, not at all. Peter was cute and she loved being the carefree, young auntie who held him and commented on those ears of his... but he also cried, was  _always_ catching something, took up date nights and celebrations, and ate up money that May couldn't  _imagine_ having to spend.   
  
Mary and Richard had always been so busy, she couldn't grasp how they made it work. Being untethered and free, that was her personal American dream, and she and Ben roamed without concern for the past or future. It was a wonderful time in her life that she'll always look back on with youthful smiles and twinkling eyes.  
  
Then Peter's parents died.   
  
And Peter had nearly died with them.  
  
As  _luck_ would have it in the most miserable of unlucky circumstances, Peter had come down with an ugly flu before the Parker's planned flight — some kind of partial business trip that left room to take a six-year-old boy along for fun in the sun vacationing afterward — and she'd been more than okay with watching out for the little guy while they were gone. Peter had been running a small fever while May laid beside him, combing her fingers through his soft locks, when Ben took a phone call that would leave his legs crumpling beneath him. She remembers it well. Thomas the Tank Engine had been playing on their small living room television, but everything else was unforgivably still in the aftermath.  
  
She had lost track of how many tear-induced headaches she'd gotten that week.  
  
Then at some point, wordlessly, Peter was ushered toward her by a proper woman in a dated business skirt, and she took his hand in hers; he looked up with those curly, wild locks framing thick-rimmed glasses, and she knew that she would do everything she could to make sure he would be  _okay_. It wasn't a matter of not wanting children anymore; it was a matter of wanting Peter.

That first night as a family, Ben counted his money at the kitchen table while she made Peter Mickey Mouse-shaped pancakes that had nearly burned in the process, and they created something workable. It wasn't  _easy_. Nothing in life is promised to be easy, and she'd learned that in her youth, when she would sneak out of her window to avoid parents who she was fairly sure didn't mind if she never came home again.

  
("Aunt May, did you and Ben want kids?" Peter had asked her in a wobbly voice one night, when he was nine, maybe ten, curled up and miserable on the couch in his Iron Man mask, "Someone at school said you didn't want me and it's okay if you didn't, but I promise I'll be better; I'll be so smart, I'll get a job so you don't have to keep worrying about money so much—")  
  
It's some kind of sick joke, that now she's a parent herself, clinging to the hope that her child would crawl through his window again, smiling sheepishly and sporting new bruises from a world she feared him being involved in. She would come home from a busy day at work and cook a meal for one, desperate to eat and go straight to bed. In the mornings, when she had no energy left in her to rise from her pillow, she would force herself to play old video tapes and let Ben and Peter's infectious laughs recharge her as she walked the cramped kitchen floor: Peter's seventh birthday at the museum, the trip to the arcade with twenty dollars Peter had won on a lottery ticket, Richard looking helplessly while Peter cried, until Mary swooped in and plucked the toddler from his hands...  
  
Peter protected the streets. Peter was a hero with a good heart. Peter did all the hard work.  
  
But everyone else just wonders where Spider-Man went.  
  
When those billions of lives began flickering into existence again, she had sat with her phone pressed to her chest, waiting for a call.  _Any_ call. She anticipated a shy voice, relenting to whatever punishment she'd dole out. He would say something like, "I'm so sorry, May, I swear this one wasn't on purpose. Please don't ground me forever."   
  
Peter didn't call her that night, but Tony Stark did, the next day.   
  
He had told her that Peter was alive. That he would contact her again when the ship carrying him returned to earth. She'd cried into the palm of her hand as he sat miles away upstate, listening in earnest, quieted by her broken relief. _Thank god,_ she'd said. _Thank god thank god thank god, my family is okay again._ She'd wanted to hold onto him and never let go. And make no mistake, she's going to ground him forever, and she's going to tuck his unruly head of hair under her chin, and watch terrible cable infomercials with him in the dead of night, and — and she won't have to apologize to Ben anymore, for losing what little they'd defended so adamantly.  
  
("I'm sorry, Aunt May, it's my fault he's gone, it's all my fault," Peter had sobbed, hidden under a hoodie as he buried his face in her shoulder; he couldn't stop shaking, and nothing she said had worked to ease his hysteria where they stood in the dark of their apartment, "Y-you don't understand...! I was  _right there_ , and I  _could've_ done something — a-and I didn't, and I  _didn't_ —")  
  
She stands now in the doorway of his silent room and looks at the carefully wrapped, untouched gifts sitting on his desk with the hope that soon —  _soon_ — he'll be able to open them all excitedly and see that he was always —  _is_ always loved here. She runs her hand over the rumpled jacket left on the back of his chair, and it soothes her instantly. _Four days._ Four days ago, Tony Stark had contacted her. And now he has not returned a single call or message. The relief curdles pretty quickly into something she didn't want to entertain: that the wool is over her eyes.  
  
The next call she gets is from Ned, who had been in the middle of his first year of college.  
  
"May, I don't understand why," he says, his voice trembling and aching with betrayal. Her heart is pounding violently in her chest now, as violently as she knows she's going to be pounding on Stark's fancy front door. "I don't know why, but I dug into the security footage to make sure like you asked, and — and, and he's  _there_ , May. I saw him on the feed, _at_ the facility. Why wouldn't he call us? Why wouldn't anyone _tell_ us?"  
  
In the video playing on the television, a young, naive Peter Parker covers his face in embarrassment; sitting cross-legged in his pajamas, he opens a present that reveals another box, and under that box is another box, and under that box is another box — it never seems to end — "May,  _c'mon_ , this is torture," he laughs.  
  
A feeling comes over her, not new, but certainly not felt in a long time.  
  
_She's going to fucking kick Anthony Stark's ass._

* * *

  
  
"You haven't  _told her yet_?!  _Tony_."  
  
Pepper's eyes are wide and full of disbelief, locked on Tony's grimace as he sits newly awoken on the edge of their bed. Morgan is still knocked out cold on the pillow beside him, her small fists clutching a color-vomited rainbow rabbit she's never let leave the bed — and wait, just  _when_ did Tony start sharing nap times with a toddler? — and he watches her breathing for a little while, just to make sure she is, because apparently he can't go five seconds without thinking a kid he loves is in mortal danger. He can blame Pete for that; he started it years ago. He groans at the thought of facing May Parker, head dropping as he starts sluggishly putting his shirt back on. "I didn't want her to come here and  _see_ him like this, Pep. She's already had a royally fucked up time since the snap — do you really think she'll be okay learning  _oh, wait, never mind,_ she doesn't have her kid back?"  
  
"It doesn't  _matter_ whether she's okay with it or not," Pepper cuts in, sharp and unhappy, "It's not _your_ choice to make."  
  
"I'm going to tell her.  _Today_. I just... I wanted to fix him before it came to this."  
  
She steps forward, running her hand over the crown of his head. "If it were Morgan, and you weren't told what happened to her, how would you feel?" He looks over to her sleeping face, and knows the answer immediately — his expression pinches to match the ache in his chest, and Pepper tips his chin so that he looks up to her. Her voice is level, eyes reading every line of code that makes up a Stark. "If it were Peter, and you'd never been told, how would you  _feel_?"  
  
He'd lose his damn mind, is what. Silenced effortlessly, he presses his face into the soft stomach in front of him, and they stay that way for a long moment. It's only when Morgan begins to stir that she finally pulls away, and his hand holds hers until it naturally trails away from him. It's the first time in a long time that he's looked at Pepper sweetly chattering with his daughter and found guilt coiling so venomously in his stomach. He was supposed to shove Morgan into Peter's awkward arms and announce his new gig with the Avengers as a professional babysitter, when he came back.  
  
That didn't pan out.  
  
Not long after, Pepper is following a clumsily running little girl toward the bathrooms while Tony walks the opposite way, into the overwhelming smell of lunch in the kitchen area that is located just outside the living quarters. Usually they have a cook that can prepare things to their heart's content, but then  _Sam Wilson_  came back to life — and, well. Now he's just taken over the kitchen wholesale. Tony can't complain; the man is a damn good cook, and he cautiously approaches the scene of Bucky and Steve and Peter, all sitting at the table, two of the three engaged in conversation. Expectedly.  
  
"Oh hey, you're finally up again," Steve says from his stool, where he meditates over an overstuffed plate of southern-styled comfort food.  
  
"Just in time to actually eat a real meal, too," Sam adds, waving a pair of tongs and immediately preparing Tony something edible — without waiting to see if he actually wanted it, go fucking figure. His stomach flips at the plate of food sitting in front of Peter, untouched. Sam motions to the boy, talking to him as plainly as he would anyone else at the table, "Can you believe this asshole, kid? Off napping while _I'm_ doing all the real work."  
  
"Being a mother hen is optional around here," Bucky mumbles at the coffee cup raised to his lips.  
  
"I'm gonna pretend you didn't just say that."  
  
"What, like you're pretending the kid didn't kick your ass in Germany, too?"  
  
"I'm pretty sure you were right there with me, you backstabbing bastard—"  
  
"He won't eat that," Tony says suddenly, maybe too suddenly, too tensely. They stop and turn to look at him, the playful banter draining from their downturned lips. He's not trying to airstrike their fucking pleasant lunch, but he can't help but feel the unease tenfold at the way everyone's talking to Peter like he can just _talk back_ — but none of these people know him like he does, none of them can really grasp just how unsettling it is, that Peter can just sit there without a word. Peter is a motormouth. Peter would be starry eyed at being at a table with Avengers like Rogers. They would've never been able to shut him up.

He clears his throat and says, "He's... not going to eat that, I mean."

"I know," Steve says after a pause, "But it might help."  
  
Tony blinks. "Help, huh?"  
  
"The smells," Bucky clarifies, though he seems quieted, maybe by his own dark thoughts.   
  
Sam wipes his hands off on a hand towel, his usually carefree way of handling things exchanged for shades of competency befitting a man who has worked with the most broken sort of man. "One of the first things you learn, going into the business of helping soldiers with deeply rooted trauma: if they're in a state of shock, or going through one of their post traumatic episodes, it's important to use their senses to ground them. Remind them where they are, when they are. It helps remind them everything's going to be okay, eventually. Soothes 'em. Gives them some kind of agency over their lives."  
  
"What agency is there, here?" They all turn toward the unhappy retort and find Wanda standing in the adjoining hallway with her hands fidgeting in front of her, dressed in a sweater much bigger than her. Her expression is one of discontent, and she glances sparingly at Peter's unwavering back before stepping forward to join the others — or at least partially join them, never quite passing some imaginary line she's formulated in her head. "It does not seem fair to him at all, to treat him like he's here. At what point does someone decide whether he is truly alive or not?"  
  
"What the hell?" Tony glowers, twisting to face her. "Don't say shit like that. He's  _alive_."  
  
"He has  _no_ brain activity, and Mantis and I haven't found any trace of someone left in this body — and trust when I say, I had tried everything I could to find him in there. I am only asking what _should_ be asked upfront: does this boy want to be a zombie roaming the halls of this building forever? Is this fair to him?" The unyielding stream of words leave Tony cold all over, the fiery outrage snuffed out by the thought — by the thought of Peter being in his thirties, forties, fifties, and still being sweetly spoken to in a one-sided, hopeless conversation. The hopelessness must be palpable, because Steve stands to full height, hands pressing the edge of the table.  
  
" _Wanda_ ," Steve says sharply. "We're nowhere near entertaining these kinds of thoughts. This is one of our own we're fighting for here.  _Stand down_."  
  
She looks defiantly at him for a moment, something too heavy and bludgeoned beckoning from the depths of her gaze. It's not quite a broken look. More like someone who has let the scar tissue build and build and build until she's made of steel-like skin. Her voice is even and far too calm and sure. "Not everyone can come back. We need to understand that before it becomes too much, or we'll all lose our minds... Sometimes losses need to be accepted."  
  
"And sometimes they don't," Bucky cuts in. "... Steve didn't accept when I was too far gone."  
  
"We didn't accept when you were gone, either," Tony speaks up, looking at her again. _But I'm starting to think you wished we did._  
  
The look she gives him could cut through his iron suit, he's pretty sure, and she turns sharply to leave the area. Probably to go back to a room she hardly comes out of, during the day. But the room holds a collective breath for a moment before four  pairs of shoulders relax in unison.  
  
"... Well, that was unpleasant," Sam mutters, side-eyeing the room. "I'll, uh, take her a plate."  
  
He dips past them, while Steve sighs, "She didn't mean anything by it, Tony. She's just—"  
  
_—fucked up. Like the rest of us._  
  
"It's fine. I get it," Tony replies, glancing at Peter with new thoughts to try and not entertain. "I probably deserve a little bit of that, anyway."  
  
Wanda had come back to the news that Vision couldn't be fixed, after all. Tony's no stranger to loss, but Wanda has absolutely out-raced him on this particular track: her parents, her homeland, her brother, her reputation — and then her lover. Tony imagines that death may have been a mercy for her by the time their defeat came along, because ever since she'd come back, she'd been quieter... more withdrawn. Bruce asking her to peer into Peter's mind had been the first time Tony'd seen her in more than just passing in  _weeks_ , though he's not sure where the hell else she could have been.  
  
"Yeah, you probably do," Bucky grumbles, poking at his potatoes.  
  
Tony rubs a hand down the whole length of his face. "I'm heading out to a meeting with the mayor — and then, uh... I'll be hitting Parker's residence to speak with his — guardian. Do you think you can...?"  
  
"We've got him," Steve replies, with an understanding nod. As much as Tony'd like to take Peter all over the goddamn globe with him, there's so much to do still. The world is still fractured, new problems rising out of the ashes of the old, and people need guidance. They need men like Tony Stark, who can throw money at problems like an extinguisher to small house fires. He rubs a hand against Peter's back, wondering if it was always that broad.

"I'll be back in a couple of hours, Pete. With your ridiculously attractive aunt in tow."

Which is a  _hilarious_ coincidence, because as he adjusts his tie and steps out into the metallic hallway leading towards the front of the facility, he nearly slams right into the tiny figure of May Parker, nostrils flaring and eyes scalding in their fury — May, who is being trailed by a clearly panicked Happy Hogan. That's about as far as Tony's able to assess the situation before May's fist flies forward and punches him right in his perfect teeth.  
  
_Yeah, I think I might deserve this one, too._

* * *

  
  
"... Um. Hi, I'm Peter. Are you okay?"   
  
The small figure uncurls where she sits, dark eyes studying the curly-haired boy in front of him. He's her age, at the very least — no older than eight or nine. She tries to decipher him like he's a riddle: he's wearing odd glasses that seem as big as his face, as well as a red jacket with sleeves that are too long on his skinny limbs, so much so his fingers peek out from under the cuffs; there's a funny little man on his shirt holding a blue sword made of light, and it reminds her of warriors from stories passed; his eyes are round and kind, his lips thin, and one shoe is untied and dragging laces.  
  
The boy — _Peter_ — is clearly afraid, bathed in warm colors from the sky above. 

( _Peter, Peter, Peter..._ )

But despite this, he still extends his hand to help her stand, holding his breath.

"... I am fine," she says. She places a small green hand in his, suddenly too relieved. His name is soothing, like a song. "My name is Gamora."  
  
And she is finally no longer alone, in this strange, endless place.


	6. Chapter 6

Peter wasn't exactly sure what had happened, but he knew that for some reason, he had been aware of every waking moment in death. Or, uh, if it  _was_ death — he wasn't really sure. He'd been clinging to Mr. Stark for dear life, tears in his eyes and pain radiating through every fiber of his body like a thousand torturous blades under his skin. It was a feeling that had reduced him in age a good seven or eight years, back when he'd run to May over a skinned knee (' _help, it hurts, I want May, May help me, Mr. Stark help me'_ ). He'd fallen without legs beneath him, with Mr. Stark trying to keep him from toppling too violently, and then he looked up in helpless defeat at at an ugly orange sky, one that belonged to a planet with a history of indescribable loss. He would be joining its nameless, scattered graveyards.  
  
He'd just been thinking, over and over:  _I'm sorry, I'm sorry Mr. Stark, I'm so sorry universe —_    
  
If he'd just been a little stronger, a little faster, a little smarter.  
  
_'I wanted you to be better.'_  
  
He tried to be. But nobody's better than  _Iron Man_.   
  
Tony Stark's stunned face had blurred into pitch darkness and the agonizing pain  _finally_ dimmed, and he found comfort in the inky blackness he drifted down in — for a short time, at least. The extremely  _temporary_ blackness. And then as he had been living within it, he'd considered the shortness of his life with unfair clarity.   
  
It was strange, but he could remember his parent's faces so much more clearly, and Ben's voice was like an auditorium speaker right in his ears, all-encompassing. They were just clips from the past, slideshows of things that bled out of his head like a hemorrhage.   
  
"If you actually cared," he'd hissed at Mr. Stark, "you'd be here!"   
  
"You're not my father," he'd snapped at Ben, sitting beside him in the car, "Just back off and let me breathe for once!"  
  
Floating in the vastness of the abyss, Peter had pressed his palms into his eyes — or at least he thinks he did, if the darkness would ease back for even a moment so he could have seen if he's even a person anymore — but no matter how hard he pressed down, nothing had hurt except for his heart, which seemed to infinitely break in the reels of film he'd found himself entangled in. His hands were sticky with blood from his uncle's prone figure. "With great power," his voice boomed, "comes the possibility of losing everything, in doing what's right — including your own life."  
  
That isn't what he'd said to Peter, but it's what he heard now.  
  
The slow growing cacophony of voices deep below him had at least distracted him from the terrible pangs of guilt, and he strained to make out each individual voice. It was impossible, though. Who were all those people down below...? He didn't... He didn't want to join them. It was too loud, too loud to his senses. He swam upward instead, or ascended — he wasn't really sure what to call this weightless feeling. As he floated like a body to the surface of an endless lake, he wondered where he was. He'd  _died_. A lot of people had died, he thought; he hadn't felt those lives go — offline, for lack of a less morose term, but he had watched the Guardians, watched Dr. Strange... fade into nothing. As if they had never existed to begin with.   
  
They were dead. They were  _dead_.   
  
Hopelessness made him ice cold all over, and he wrapped his arms around himself. Was this death, or was it a prison?   
  
Was he being punished for something he'd done in this life? Or another?   
  
"I wish you'd talk to me more," Aunt May said sadly, reverberating in the dark and tapering off into the nothingness. Like a dropped pebble skipping down a stony surface. "Peter, you have to talk to me. It's just me and you — you —  _you_." Peter turned over and looked down below. There were no skyscrapers, but he swore he had been seeing lights flickering like stars, far, far away.  
  
He put his hands over his ears, but he couldn't mute the sounds of pleading coming up from under him, bubbling beneath him.   
  
"My hands turned to dust!"  
  
"Where's my daughter?! Where am I!?"  
  
"Steve?! No,  _no_ , I don't want to go back to that—"  
  
"Mommy, I want my mommy!"  
  
Spider-Man screamed from the inside of Peter's soul outward, wanting to be freed, wanting to swing down and scoop the disembodied voices into his arms so he could put them somewhere safe. But there was nowhere safe to go. They were all here in this dark, awful place, snuffed out and left abandoned in — purgatory?  
  
"It's the stone," a voice said, and Peter's heart thudded violently in his chest at the familiarity (or whatever his heart is, if he was dead, if it was not really a body at all). He looked, really  _looked_ , and found Dr. Strange floating alongside him. "I believe we're in the stone. Dead in the physical world, but not lost here. It would create an instability too enormous to control, if trillions of souls were displaced at once— Peter, calm yourself."  
  
A hand pressed over his heart. If there was even still a heart in him, somehow. He felt a beat through every fiber of him, though.  
  
"I can't breathe," he gasped.  
  
"You don't need to breathe, you're dead," Dr. Strange corrected patiently. Peter had been one step away from completely losing his mind, and yet Stephen Strange was eerily calm. Defiantly so. If there was some magic trick to it, Peter would have paid handsomely to learn it.  
  
"How — how long do we have to do this," he asked at last, sweating. Or maybe he wasn't. Maybe he really couldn't do that anymore. Sweating. But he remembered what sweating felt like.   
  
Stephen said, "Until the Avengers undo what's been done."  
  
"I can't, I can't do this," he whispered hoarsely.   
  
"You have little choice in the matter," and the stern voice softened near the end, a sympathetic period on a harsh sentence. "I'm sorry, kid."  
  
"Are those — are all those stars...? "  
  
"Souls? Yes."  
  
Peter felt dizzy in the great expanse of nothing. Those were twinkling  _souls_ , billions and trillions of them, stretching as far as the eye could see. It was too much. It was so much, he wasn't sure how he was gonna be able to endure this much longer. Strange seemed to sense the panic pluming around Peter's soul as if an ink blot, or a drop of blood in a sink. In a way that didn't seem remotely like the man he had met just a day before, Strange reached out and wrapped his arms around Peter. Arms. Cool, they had arms. He's glad they still had arms.  
  
The combination of their light had allowed Peter to finally see the outline of his own fingers where they clutched and twisted in the fabric of Stephen's cape, huddled around the two of them. Maybe it was childish (and he was more than a little embarrassed about it), but he couldn't help but cling to the doctor with the hope that he would have all the answers; he already seemed to have so many, and seemed so brave in the face of this impossibly big thing, and Peter had nearly forgotten how to be brave himself in the wake of this  _monsoon_.  
  
"Listen to me, Peter," Stephen said patiently, "It had to be done, but I swear to you — if you can hold on longer, it's possible that they'll win. That we'll win. I've seen it, in that single, crucial future. I'll have no memory of this place, and neither will anyone else, so you need to hang onto hope that we'll all be freed. It'll be like it never happened. Everyone will be alright."  
  
"O-or we'll all be here forever and go crazy."  
  
"I suppose that's extremely possible, too."  
  
Peter laughed tiredly. "How're you dealing with this so well?"   
  
"Practice. It's not the first time I'll been without a physical form. And it's not the first time I've endured a broken clock, so to speak."   
  
After another moment of relishing the light of another living soul, Peter finally let go. There was a new ease that felt a little like courage. Dr. Strange had been relying on him to hang on, to not let it get to him, so that was what he was going to do. He breathed in and out deeply, and the world around him felt like it drew in, drew out, in uniform. "Where are the others...?"  
  
"Far below." He looked down, looked back up. Peter could see the color of his eyes now. "Do you want to come with me, to find them?"  
  
"No... No, it's too — it's too loud."  
  
Strange's bright outline pulled away, and he kept one steadying hand against the dimmed line of Peter's shoulder.  
  
"I need to help where I can, but I'll return shortly; stay here, alright?"  
  
Peter nodded, and some time after Strange departed, he lost track of time, drifting further from the noisy world below. And while existing here was at first a torment, he'd found it easier and easier to endure. He just... had let himself float away. He drifted, farther still, all while finding solitude he wouldn't have on Titan; it was better than his body trying over and over to heal, breaking apart before coming together at a rate it could have never kept up with. A strange feeling of sleep crept over him. He embraced it.  
  
"Hey, Pete," Quill's voice echoed.  
  
"Mr. Spider!" Mantis called out.  
  
"Man-Spider!"  
  
"It's Spider-Man," Peter whispered, voice thready.  
  
He fell upward, further and further.   
  
It was far quieter, up there.  
  
It was far less painful, up there.   
  
The longer he drifted, the more he didn't want to come back down, and soon he had felt the warmth of somewhere  _safe_ on his cheeks —  _sunlight_ , like the kind you found during a picnic with the aunt and uncle you loved. Childish memories washed over him, like playing with plastic dinosaurs on the windowsill of his apartment window. He remembered being curled up on Saturday in May and Ben's bed, when they couldn't keep him out of it. He remembered how happy he'd been, when Ben replaced the Iron Man action figure he'd accidentally broken when he was playing.  
  
He shrank smaller into himself, small enough to fit through the cracks. He kept hearing his name, like a song.  
  
He forgot why he was falling in the first place.  
  
When he woke up again —  
  
_Sunlight_.  
  
He didn't remember how he got there, exactly. He could have swore he had been waiting patiently for Aunt May and Uncle Ben to finish dinner — lasagna, lovingly called  _spaghetti cake_  in the home. It had been a weekday, he thought, and he had a lot of homework to finish before Friday. Ben was still smart enough to do most of it with him. But his home, the apartment, it wasn't here — in fact, everything was blurry until he pawed around on the grass for his glasses and slipped them back over his button-like nose.  
  
The place he stood was rolling with grains in the distance, golden and lush. The sky was a orange hue, a sunset. There was a lake nearby, and next to that, a strangely built kinda' gazebo. On the bench there a small girl covered her face with her hands, as if she'd wanted to just vanish; the thought, for some reason he couldn't quite place, made his stomach all queasy. He wasn't very used to speaking first, or being brave, especially without his Iron Man mask. He wore that to every doctor's appointment he'd had. People said he was getting way, way too old to act like such a little baby about that, but it made him feel invincible.  
  
He walked over to the girl anyway, with or without it.   
  
Closer, he realized her skin was green.  
  
He said, "... Um. Hi, I'm Peter."   
  
The small figure uncurled where she sat, dark eyes studying the curly-haired boy up and down as he studied her right the heck back. She was his age, at the very least — no older than eight or nine. He tried to decipher her, like she was a riddle: she had lots of hair that looked dyed at the ends, like a cool punk or a rock star kinda person; it looked like it would've been hard to brush, because there was so much of it. Her outfit didn't remind him of anything he'd seen in New York, even if it was a pretty colorful place already.  
  
Her eyes were full of distrust, but that made sense.  _Stranger danger, and all that._  
  
"... Are you okay?" Somewhere deep down, he felt this funny feeling, like — he just wanted to help her. Real bad. He wanted to help her be safe, because for some reason, she looked like that's all she wanted. He extended a hand that had been half-eaten by his own sleeve, holding his breath.  
  
"... I am fine," she said. She placed her fern-green hand in his, and he breathed relief. "My name is Gamora."  
  
"What're you doing here?" he asked, brow pinching.  
  
"I'm... hiding," she mumbled. "From  _him_."  
  
"Him?"  
  
She told him  _every_ thing.   
  
She told him about what her dad did to people, like it was some compassionate thing to do; after knowing how his own mom and dad died, he couldn't  _imagine_ someone killing someone else on purpose, inflicting that kinda' pain on another living soul. But Thanos wasn't really her dad, she'd said; he was a terrible,  _terrible_ person who did a lot of awful things. He killed her mom and stole her away, plucked her off her planet and pretended she was something he got to keep. Peter hated the thought that she'd be collected like that, as if she were just a rare Pokémon card, or something.   
  
"What is a  _Pokéman_?" she asked, legs crossed and hands fidgeting at her pants where they sat.   
  
"Um, it's like... It's little monsters you catch in special balls, and you make them fight each other?"  
  
"That sounds awful," she said, eyes wide and worried, and he quickly held his hands up.  
  
"Nonono, it's not real! Don't worry. It's just made up for the card game, that's all. And only crappy trainers treat them really badly, too. I'm not a bad trainer like  _that_." He was not, it was a fact. He'd named all his pocket monsters after superheroes like Iron Man and Captain America. Gamora continued to frown, but she seemed a little less disturbed. He pushed up on his glasses, sighing. "Anyways, um. I'm — I'm sorry... about what happened to you. That sounds... bad."  
  
He could've said that better, he thought. But she shook her head, not wanting to linger on it. Maybe she didn't want pity.  
  
"What about you?" she asked, "Why are  _you_ here?"  
  
The million dollar question. He bit his index finger knuckle, trying to remember.  
  
"... I don't know. I was with my aunt and uncle, and..."  
  
"Will you tell me about them?" she asked, maybe hopeful for any kind of conversation that wasn't about her father. She had seemed so eager to learn, he couldn't help but give in almost immediately to the request.  
  
"S-sure, yeah. I can tell you about anything you want."  
  
That was when Peter Parker made his first  _real_ friend.   
  
He couldn't wait to tell May about it.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Peter had lost track of all the days that passed by, locked away in that pretty sunset world.  
  
He and Gamora slept in the grass after they ate funny-shaped fruit from her homeland trees, but time didn't seem to change any, no matter how many times they woke up and went back to sleep. It had left a lot of time for talking to each other, learning all kinds of things he didn't think was possible. She told him about outer space and how there were aliens as far as you could dream, and not at all just the bad kind that would try to destroy people's homes. She taught him some stuff about the Zehoberei and teased him a lot about all the things he couldn't do, like catching fish or running over hilltops.   
  
He was never very good at sporty stuff.  
  
He tried to do a cartwheel like her, talking as he struggled over and over.  
  
"I like... building things more... I made — my uncle a roomba once," he said proudly, before flopping over. He rubbed a red jacket sleeve over his nose, sniffling. Maybe allergies. He had a lot of weird allergies like that. "It was a junior robotics kit, so it was baby stuff, but it really worked."  
  
Gamora looked gravely at him again, unfitting for her question: "... What's a  _roomba_?"  
  
"I'll tell you that as soon as you tell me what a  _zibuthlog_ is," he grinned.  
  
"It's a  _ziborthhog_ , and it's funnier if you  _don't_ know."  
  
Flipping onto her stomach, Gamora plucked up grass from the ground, waiting for him to finish sulking about the elusive ziborthhog. Her smile faded as her mind drifted to other places, and he could see the change in atmosphere to the clouds in her head in real time. "... Peter, do you ever feel like there's something you're... supposed to know? Something you're supposed to remember? People you should..."  
  
She trailed off as Peter's eyes shut in thought, lips relaxing from their pout.   
  
When he closed his eyes, it felt familiar. The dark. "... All the time, yeah."  
  
He always felt like there was something he should remember.  
  
Something...  
  
_... Something..._  
  
He decided that if there  _was_ something that important to know, that something would have to find  _him_ first. He was tired of thinking too hard about it.   
  
And that was that.   
  
They eventually fell asleep in the grass, like they always did when weariness took over, since the sky was never a clear indication of when was a good time. In the darkness of sleep, Peter saw billions and trillions of little lights — little stars. They pulsed behind his eyes, over and over and  _over_ , the voices growing, growing,  _growing_ — familiar voices, asking where he was, wondering where he'd gone. Not Aunt May, not Uncle Ben, not Mom or Dad. Then he dreamed about spiders for some reason: wriggly, scary spiders, the kind that have marks on their back, so you knew they were bad news. They crawled all over him, and then — and then they  _bit_ him.   
  
And pain radiated all over, so intense he just wanted it all to be  _over_. He wanted Iron Man to save him.  
  
He shot up suddenly from the nightmare, breathing hard —  
  
And found himself staring at something huge and humanoid and blurry in the grass in front of him.   
  
Pawing for his glasses, he clumsily pushed them back on, and the orange-tinted world refocused. The kneeling man who faced him so suddenly was too big to be a normal human, his arm as huge as Peter's entire body was. And... and the other arm was gone, blood pouring onto the grass instead. Peter couldn't help but cry out in surprise, scrabbling back. Blood was everywhere. The man was panting, eyes fluttering.  
  
"Ga... mora..." he rasped, lungs bubbling.  
  
_Thanos_ , Peter thought.  
  
Gamora had awoken to Peter's gasp a moment late, and sat frozen near Peter as Thanos started a slow, wilting crawl toward the two children. Even as young as he was, Peter knew the alien didn't actually care about  _him_ being there; he wanted  _Gamora_ , desperate for someone to recognize him in that moment, and he held out his shaking, dripping hand for her to take. She looked scared, torn, like she wasn't sure what to do. Thanos kept weakly chanting for her, bidding her to obey, and it made Peter think that if she listened and took his hand, he may never see her again.  
  
Peter lunged forward and wrapped his arms around her, encompassing her as he nudged them backwards, further away from the dying man. Gamora peered out from under Peter's arm and chin, her ear smashed to his chest, where his heart pitter-pattered wildly. Peter's untied shoelace dragged as he kept them at a distance.   
  
"Get  _away_ from her," Peter said, crawling them both backwards for every inch Thanos managed, staring fiercely into the man's eyes. Whatever was in them, he didn't know, couldn't read them. But what he did know was this: whatever happened out there, one thing was certain in Peter's mind... Tony Stark and the Avengers kicked his ass — would never have rested until they did. Thanos was a bad guy, and like all bad guys, he had  _lost_.   
  
The villain's mouth parted weakly, but there was nothing more to be said. The final thing he would ever see was Spider-Man, his metal spider limbs curling in the air protectively while he watched him from over little Gamora's head in grim defiance, daring him to try anything with that dying breath of his.  
  
Beaten and bloody and without a single person by his side, like a great mountain, Thanos fell to the ground.   
  
_Dead_.  
  
It took very little time for his body to crumple, deteriorating into ash and drifting away on the warm winds. All the while, Peter sat there stunned, clutching Gamora tightly with gloved, iron hands — but not nearly as tightly as she clutched him back, her grip so strong it would have definitely bruised him in another world, another time. He closed his eyes and remained quiet in her company for what felt like forever, sinking with relief. When he finally pulled back from her, he found a Guardian of the Galaxy staring back in shock, muscled and scarred, very little left of the child he had just cartwheeled with. Memories had broken through the great dam in their minds, and suddenly, everything made sense. They  _remembered_.  
  
And everything hurt.  
  
But Thanos was dead, and even if this place wasn't real, somehow he knew.  _He was dead._  
  
They won. Somewhere out there in the galaxy, they  _won_.  
  
Here they were, lost, and yet... it all had to count for something, right?  
  
"It's... It's okay to cry," he stuttered, when he realized she'd been battling with tears that twinkled in her eyes. He swallowed hard himself, and tried for a self-deprecating smile when she didn't move a muscle. "I'm a big crybaby, so you know you can trust me on that one. I cried at the end of Toy Story 3, like, all snot,  _hard_ crying—" He nearly toppled over when she dragged Spider-Man — Peter Parker — into a hug that nearly broke his back. Or felt like it, anyway. The sound he made was undignified.  
  
"Just stop talking," she roughly managed. "Why are all Peters such ramble-mouths?"  
  
"Well, as long as I'm... not a ziborthhog..."  
  
He and his new-old friend sat on the grassy hill — her homeland's ghost — and wondered what would come next.


	7. Chapter 7

Sam just wanted a decent lunch, man. Maybe try to help get the kid out of this awful, absentee state of mind if he can help — and lord, imagine his damn surprise when he'd learned this doe-faced high school student was the face behind the onesie that nearly took him and Bucky out in one swoop. He's not about to say he actually did, by the way; Redwing saved his ass and he was never caught by the kid, don't even come at him with that. His pride has to stay intact.  
  
Anyway. Lunch, you know? He earned it, being dead as shit for two years.   
  
Even if he can't remember anything about those two years.  
  
(Which makes sense, being dead and all.)  
  
And now here was Tony Stark, about to get his ass murdered in front of him.  
  
"Cut the  _bullshit_ , Tony Stark, and  _tell_ me where my kid is!"  
  
"May, just let me explain," Tony groans behind two hands, held over a bleeding lip.  
  
_This_ was the scene Sam Wilson had come back to: May Parker looking ready to lunge and slam Tony's head into something a couple times, and Tony looking, for once, incapable of using that mouth of his. Which may have to do with the bleeding lip part. Sam's thinking he should just turn around, make a run for it, and lunge back into Wanda's room for cover; she'd understand, if he explained there was a pissed off Italian woman in the hallway that may or may not be beating up Stark today. Dammit all if Sam's not a bleeding heart, though — not for Tony in  _this_  situation, nah, but he couldn't have  _Pepper_ dealing with a pummeled husband  _and_ a two year old.  
  
(Which is harder to deal with? You be the judge.)  
  
Wish him luck, he's going in.  
  
"Whoa, whoa, hey!" he starts in, only to put his hands up and back away a few steps when May reels around and sends some damn pointy daggers  _through_ him; he's feeling like the sword-filled box in a magic act here, and though he's a brave man, he's not nearly  _that_ brave. He'll be the lion tamer from  _across_ the hall, thanks. "Let's just talk this through. I know he deserves a few good kicks to the head from time to time, but it's not gonna help anything right now. Also, you might hurt your hand on his skull, and he shouldn't get that point in his favor."  
  
Tony has enough Stark left in him to roll his eyes, but he refocuses.  
  
"May, I'm sorry. I should have told you, but you've got to understand, there's—"   
  
She shoves past him with little care for what he has to say, a desperate "Peter!" on her lips, and Sam realizes far too quickly how much the old saying  _'hell in a hand basket'_  might apply to this situation. She must have some aunt-related honing missiles in her arsenal or some shit, because she sniffs out the kitchen near immediately while Tony sags against the wall, tilting his head back and probably wishing for the sweet release of death. Dude's got a split lip that puts any other Sam's seen to shame.   
  
Happy says breathlessly to Tony, "I'm sorry, boss, she strong-armed me."  
  
Sam doesn't say  _anything_ to that as he follows after May's fiery footfalls, but he does clap the billionaire on the chest a few times as he passes. Translation?  _'Hang in there, we'll work with this. Also, you deserved that punch.'_ He did, and Tony Stark'll be the first to say as much, so he's not gonna rub it in. Fact of the matter is, there's a woman who's about to have her heart broken.  
  
Steve and Bucky are up and standing when Sam enters the kitchen just behind May, and the two fellow soldiers look at him in a panic like he's grown two heads. Even if they hadn't  _met_ May Parker yet, they've all at least heard enough about her to make the connection. Sam's not sure what he should do just yet (you have to know what kind of person you're dealing with, to treat the anxiety that sets in) — so he holds out a hand toward Bucky and Steve, bidding the other boys stand back and let whatever happens happen. It's gonna be a nightmare either way, and anyone who tries anything will get their arms ripped off and slapped with them by an emotionally messed-up adoptive mom.   
  
So much for a quiet day; he can't catch a break this hour.  
  
" _Peter_ ," May says. Sam can't see her face from where he approaches from the doorway, but he can hear the tears — a sound that wobbles in Peter's name, spoken so longingly and lovingly, Sam can't help but feel his heart restricting in his ribs. She grabs the kid's shoulders, but he doesn't turn willingly. And he doesn't say anything when she forcefully spins him to look at her. He can imagine the way her face falls into confusion, into alarm. Her voice is stuffy. "Peter? Peter,  _look_ at me, baby, it's me. It's  _May_. I'm here to take you home..."  
  
Steve looks at Sam helplessly, lips thinned behind a trimmed beard. The presence of Tony Stark hovers behind him as he unpockets a handkerchief for his bloody chin. Everyone's gone silent as May grips Peter's chin in her hands and strokes his face, cards her fingers through his hair. He only blinks when her fingers near the edge of his eyes, an impulsive action from his motor memory. It's like Tony all over again, when the  _Benatar_ landed, and Bucky looks away from the sight of it — May's disbelief and denial, at first, that will no doubt bubble into panic.  
  
"Why isn't he looking at me?  _Tony_ , what's wrong with him? Someone  _say_ something!"  
  
"There were complications," Steve says, when no one else can. It's a little shameful. They're all soldiers, aren't they? Even Stark. Maybe even especially Stark, at this point. Sam knows way too much about the war zone in that guy's head, nowadays.  
  
May stares at Steve, a shaky hand slowly leaving Peter's hair. Her face pales. "What — what, what does that mean?"  
  
Specks of blood blurring on his dress shirt collar, Tony answers her with the God's honest truth of the situation: plainly, honestly, apologetically.  
  
Sam catches the woman as she faints.   
  
To be fair to her, he'd have probably done the same thing.  


* * *

  
  
Peter and Gamora were themselves again. Or about as close to what they were as they had ever been. Peter wasn't really sure how much time had passed in that little pocket of the soul stone world — or  _whatever_ you could have called it, anyway. Peter honestly had a hard time wrapping his head around the fact that trillions of lives were not only snapped out of existence, but all then resided there all around their little oasis, forever churning in a pitch-black world of chaotic energy. The strange facsimile of Gamora's home world had not been a normal occurrence; if anything, it had been intrinsically tied to Thanos, built by his power over the stone. He had wanted to preserve the Gamora he loved, maybe. Which was, pardon Peter's language, _fucked up_ — it had been clear he did nothing but lead her to suffering, and to cling to the child version of her had left an even more uncomfortable taste in his mouth.  
  
So, there they were. There was no reason to hide behind their childhoods anymore. Thanos was dead, and Gamora didn't need to mask her pain behind the innocent little girl Thanos stole away from her world. Peter... he had perhaps realized he was hiding behind his younger self, too. When he'd been drifting through the dark void toward any semblance of light, it had been so much easier to go back to those days when he was little — when he had posters of cartoon characters on his walls, a full belly of Aunt May's cooking, and Uncle Ben chiding him on not tying his shoes. He'd freaked Peter out for weeks once, when he warned him about escalators eating his shoelaces; he had taken the stairs for a straight year after that—  
  
"It seems like a logical fear to me," Gamora told him, as they basked in the sun. Sometimes it was hard to tell when he was speaking out loud or keeping his thoughts to himself; when you were technically not a brain in a body, everything was wishy-washy and difficult to parse.   
  
"What, death by shoelace in an escalator? I guess so..."  
  
Time was strange, in this other world they had inhabited; neither Gamora nor Peter himself could say with confidence how long they had been keeping each other company as children before, and then  _after_ they had still been completely in the dark about the passage of hours, days, months. For all Peter knew, they had been there long enough that everyone they cared about could have died from old age — barring Thor, anyway, special flower that he was. Peter was still sour that he hadn't gotten a chance to meet the guy. But he did at least get to meet Peter Quill and Gamora's other friends, and he told Gamora at length about what had happened on Titan.  
  
She took it... well enough, though her eyes had a darkness that passed through them throughout the tale. He couldn't imagine what it must've felt like, knowing her friends had been looking for her, even after she had died. When she told him about the mountain on Vormir and how Thanos had thrown her down into its pit as a sacrifice, Peter could only think of when he was struggling to rip the gauntlet off Thanos' hand... and how he had looked over in desperation to Peter Quill, who was struggling with a surge of emotion that had ultimately won out over logic. He had been so mad at the other Peter in that moment; he'd been trying  _so_ hard, putting every muscle into getting that glorified Power Glove off, and then Quill had just... lost it.  
  
But the anger had passed as quickly as it had come. There was nobody to blame for the snap except Thanos, and he was dead now.  
  
Gamora rested on her back for a while, but eventually rose up to sit. She seemed uncertain if she wanted to say something, so Peter closed his eyes and pretended he hadn't noticed anything it all, in case that was, like, peer pressure to say it. "Peter?"  
  
"Mm?" His head whipped maybe a little too fast to look at her.   
  
Gamora almost seemed humored when she looked at him, with his honest, over-eager stare.   
  
"Thank you for your company." His cheeks reddened a little. Really, he wanted to tell her that it was just as much for him as it was for her — he couldn't bear the thought of venturing back out into that never-ending expanse just beyond the bubble built here. Gamora continued curiously, "How did you find this place?"  
  
"Oh! I heard my name."  
  
Her pronounced brow furrowed. "Your name?"  
  
"Yeah... I was drifting because it was all kind of  _too_ much? So I just... wanted to get away from the other souls for a while." He was thinking maybe it had to do with his little radioactive spider problem. After all, that had probably been the reason dying had been so viciously painful, like his whole body had been tortured with rusted needles all at once. The input, it had  _too much_. Dialed up to  _fifteen_. And because of that, he had wanted to hurry away from everything that had been twinkling and screaming for help in the darkness. He had wanted to escape, and part of him was ashamed of that. He was Spider-Man, an  _Avenger_ , but...  
  
Gamora was patient and serious as a sin, perched on her elbow and looking at him as he bit his lip and struggled with the memory of it all. He breathed out and continued, "And then I heard my name... And this  _light_ — I could make out this  _light_ , as I floated up, and... I don't know. I just ended up here." And Quill and Strange and everyone else had been calling out to him. He thought, anyway. He wasn't sure. He could have just been 'tripping serious balls', as Ned would've said... He missed Ned a lot.  
  
Gamora managed a slight smile, looking down. "I suppose I did get  _some_ manner of Peter."  
  
He smiled sheepishly, hands behind his head where he lay. "Sorry I was the wrong one."  
  
"There's no reason to apologize." Her voice suddenly went frustrated, in that way that seemed to be overflowing with sass and attitude; he liked that about Gamora, that she had been so serious and yet secretly storing away so much snark. "My Peter is an  _idiot_ who would have driven me crazy most of the time, if he had managed to make it here."  
  
"You  _are_ his girlfriend—"  
  
"Do you  _have_ to use that term?"  
  
"—and that's what boyfriends usually do. They annoy the heck outta' their girlfriends." He turned over to rest on his side and mirrored her pose, his palm pressed to his face and picasso-ing his cheek a little while he daydreamed about home. "I have a girl I like, too... Her name's MJ. She's... she's kind of weird. Kind of super-duper weird, actually, but I think I really,  _really_ like weird."  
  
"Good. I'm not sure what a  _duper_ is, but  _weird_ is the best way to be, Peter."  
  
Peter couldn't help but completely agree, and his timid grin said as much.   
  
Normal was  _overrated_.  
  
He opened his mouth to tell her all about Michelle Jones, master artist, professional feminist, questionable dresser — but as he had started to talk, the ground beneath them trembled with enough force to rock them sideways onto both elbows. Gamora's hand shot out to grab Peter's shoulder and gripped fiercely as she kept them both steady. Meanwhile up above, the orange sky groaned like a great metal beast caving in on itself, and Peter looked up with wide eyes to see puncture wounds in the atmosphere, where familiar blackness trickled in.   
  
"What is that?" Gamora asked, and Peter didn't really have an answer. What he  _did_ know was that he felt a familiar and awful sensation of queasiness, followed by the agony of  _needles_ being pin-cushioned through him. Like — like he was a butterfly being put in a frame, but he wasn't  _dead enough_ yet, with wings flapping desperately against the air. It didn't make sense, because he didn't have a body to lose anymore, and yet it was so terrible an agony that he cried out where he'd been huddling next to Gamora.   
  
"Peter? What's wrong? Hey!"  
  
He grabbed her wrist hard enough to draw a pained sound from her, and he really wanted to apologize for that, but everything was hurting so  _bad_. It was exactly what he felt when he had been dying in Mr. Stark's arms. What did it mean? He choked for the right words, tears in his eyes. Gamora looked down on him with wide, helpless eyes as the edges of his arm began to crumble into particles, glowing with fragments of Peter's soul. "S-Something's pulling me... I can't... I can't —"   
  
_I can't hang on._  
  
He was pulled away from the orange world so violently, he couldn't even say when Gamora's hand had been ripped away from him. Everything was speeding around him so  _fast_ that he felt like a small boy scrabbling for safety in rabid waters, churning over and over and not finding any purchase on the riverbanks. And it was dark, all dark, and he knew — he knew he had been forcefully ejected from the place he and Gamora had huddled for safety together in. But why? Why? It was so hard to think. Everything  _hurt_. He could hear Gamora's voice fading further and further away.  
  
_"Peter...! Pe... ter...! e... t... r!"_  
  
"Peter, focus! It's over! We're going back,  _now_!"   
  
_That_ was Dr. Strange.   
  
"What the fu— hey,  _kid_!"   
  
_That_ was Big Pete.  
  
Peter felt like he was being quartered, like every part of his non-corporeal form was fighting the pull of wherever he was being sucked into. The darkness became overwhelmingly bright and bled into every part of him like  _fire_. He couldn't see, he could only hear, and everything he heard was like gunfire in a metal room. It bounced and scraped and screeched and — and —  _make it stop!!!  
  
_ "Little Pete, hey!  _Peter_! Take my hand!" Peter peeled open his eyes and saw the faintest outline of Star-Lord, struggling against the astral tide and extending his hand out to try and reach the boy. But Peter wasn't sure he could peel his fingers away from his arms, hugging himself as tight as possible to try and not explode apart. Souls were shooting by like comets, and they were warm against him when they brushed by. It was orange, everything was orange like Titan; he looked down and swore he saw his own body staring, dead-eyed, back at him. No no no, it hurts, it hurts—  
  
He didn't want to go back if it would feel like  _this_. He looked at Quill and choked on his words. "I can't, I  _can't_ , it hurts, I can't do this...!"  
  
Quill couldn't fight the stampede of souls for long, and he drifted further and further away.  
  
The man's offered hand had burst into particles and swirled down, down down...   
  
And Peter?

Peter had not followed.  
  
It had hurt too much.  
  
So... he stayed behind.  


* * *

  
  
Of course, the Star-Lord remembers  _some_ of the soul realm, or whatever it was called.   
  
He remembers Peter Parker's terrified face, remembers reaching out and offering his hand with the hope that Peter would take it. But it seemed like the kid had been too overwhelmed and in pain to try and go any further. Against all rhyme and reason, it reminded him terribly of his mother's death; yeah, it was a teenaged boy, not a mother with cancer, but they had — y'know. They had the same look in their eyes. Desperation that maybe, just maybe, the suffering would end, or that maybe they didn't have to be alone. The longer Quill lives and breathes, the more he can visualize it all again.   
  
He'd offered his hand, prayed Peter would take it.  
  
Little Pete isn't the one who pleaded for his hand.  _Quill_ called for the kid's hand.  
  
_So this is what it's like_ , he had thought. Maybe that's why the teenager is a little under his skin here. The Guardians had agreed to help with the efforts in keeping earth's skies clear, and to aid in some of the humanitarian work, but time was ticking and Quill had other places to be. Still, he made it a priority when he was at the Avengers facility for the last few days to check up on Little Pete. He finds what he expects to find: a catatonic kid who still hasn't shown any signs of improvement.   
  
What he doesn't expect to find is Stark looking like he went a round with a toaster that got lobbed at his chin.  
  
"Holy shit," Quill snort-laughs, because if there's anything to raise the spirits, it's Tony Stark looking pissy with a boxer's lip as they meet halfway in the break room, which is way too big to be a real breakroom, Jesus H. Christ. "You look  _awful_ , oh man."

"Yeah, yeah," Tony grumbles.   
  
"Seriously, though — who decided you needed the make-over?"  
  
"Peter's aunt. She found the kid and it was a little much for her, so she's... ' _sleeping_ ' it off blissfully in the medical ward."  
  
The smile is wiped right off his face, and his lips part just enough for a thoughtful ' _ah_ '. Quill knows he has family somewhere in Missouri — it's not like it's been a lifetime since he'd left, or even half of one, so there are definitely Quills west of New York who still have no clue what became of him. Honestly — and maybe it's shitty to think this way now — he isn't jumping at the opportunity to revisit that part of his life. His family is the Guardians, and (as fucked up as they were) the Ravagers...  _Yondu_. He was a total stranger to those normal, good folks in the Midwest, and if they knew the shit he'd pulled in space, who knows if they'd have even welcomed him to the doorstep.   
  
But he knows the pain of losing family. Oh, he  _knows_.   
  
Peter hasn't been able to talk about Gamora, not even with Rocket or Drax, who have prodded him about it in the hopes that he'll unfurl like a clam. He had even snapped at Mantis once — and had to instantly apologize for it, too, because damn if he's gonna be an asshole to the people in his life who are suffering from the same loss as him. Nebula and him have been on  _great_ terms, though, because she is equally terrible at addressing the elephant in the room. What they  _do_ talk about is how much juice they're gonna need to get the  _Benatar_ back to Vormir and try—  
  
"Listen," Tony says, waving his hand. "I know I told you that the soul stone's all yours, gift-wrapped and bowed, but... I need a little longer."  
  
Ah, he worried about this kind of road bump. He narrows his eyes suspiciously. "... How much longer are we talking?"  
  
Tony is uncharacteristically quiet for a spell, walking around what is probably the only wooden thing in his whole goddamn chromefest. It's a nice table. The billionaire looks like he's trying to tread on fine eggshells here, which is both offensive and wholly necessary all at once. "I don't know. I just — need to run more numbers. Strange is heading to the London Sanctum in the hopes there's more there about whatever the hell happened to Parker, and if that  _soul stone_  is a way to get him  _out_ of this..."  
  
_'I love you, more than anything.'_  Gamora's terrified face fills his mind, and he thinks about the last words she'd ever told him — thinks about the failure of ending her pain then and there as she stood in Thanos' clutches.  _She's not dead, she can't be dead,_  that was his mantra for the last four or five days since springing back to life, and he's dead-set on proving as much, against all common sense that says it's true.   
  
Quill holds his hands up and tries not to be an asshole about it, because he doesn't  _want_  to be. "Look, I get it. I want the kid to get out of this, too, but — we need to put that stone back. You can't just keep it here forever and  _hope_ that it does something."

"You think I don't know that? I just need long enough to know it won't do  _us_ any good."  
  
"And that could be  _forever_ —"   
  
Tony cuts in sharply, stepping forward, "Another week. Give me  _one_ week. Your crew can take a couple of rooms here, do whatever in the meantime. Rocket's already got a room, probably full of trash bins to dig around in for cold pizza."  
  
Peter pinches the bridge of his nose, trying not to let the image of Peter Parker's pleading expression drown out everything he'd planned to do out there. He's honest about it — or, well, half-honest — when he says, "We're hauling ass back to Vormir with the thing and casting it into the Mordor fires, before this place gets attacked by  _Thanos-worshipping idiots_  who want that kind of juice—"  
  
"Is that all you're doing?" the other man asks, so fucking stone-faced.  
  
Peter draws his hand back, voice taut. "What?"  
  
"C'mon, Quill. I know why you're so dead-set on getting that stone." Tony walks over, and despite everything that's happened, he's still doing fabulously at throwing his weight around and trying to seem taller than he actually is; _those shoes are definitely adding some height, buddy, you're not fooling anyone_. Peter looks down at him with a threatening frown, and Tony says, utterly confident, "You're holding onto any sliver of hope that it'll fix what happened to this Gamora chick—"  
  
Peter grabs the man's suit lapels, face jutting close to Tony's and teeth gritting. The Guardians can talk about Gamora.   
  
Mr. Iron Man?  _No_.   
  
" _Shut_ it, Stark."  
  
He knows Gamora would be more than unhappy with his now commonplace emotional outbursts when it came to her. He can practically hear her in his head, just before she'd sock him in the back of it:  _Will you stop with the dramatics, Peter? This isn't what I wanted._  And hell, every time he's done lashing out, it's always followed immediately by guilt and shame, so why the fuck can't he stop himself? Despite this, Tony doesn't fight back on this. He looks tired, and — understanding.   
  
"... I know how you feel. I'm holding onto any sliver of hope I can get my grimy hands on, too." Quill's hands relax at the raw honesty in Stark's voice, leaving wrinkles in the fabric of his expensive outfit. "I want you to undo what the purple people eater did, too. I want you to take the damn stone and do whatever the hell you want with it, because if I have to look at any of them one more time I'm gonna hurl. But... I need this. And if Peter needs this and I don't have what he needs, I'm never gonna forgive myself. So please. Just a week. A week's the least Pete deserves here."  
  
What would Gamora say? Peter blows out a breath.

"... Alright. Alright, Stark. A week."   
  
He licks his lips, and adds:  
  
" _Guardians of the Galaxy_ , right? Little Pete's a part of the galaxy, so... a week."  


* * *

  
  
After Quill had vanished into nothingness and Peter was alone again in the soul realm, he had pin-balled back into the abyss and floated, again, for the hundredth time. He was honestly been getting really damn sick of traveling through it; the New York subway system was a  _masterpiece_ compared to the icy darkness within the soul stone world. He had slept, or whatever it was anymore, and tried not to think of the awful events of just moments beforehand — dreamed about May and Ben, and then quietly thought about how nice Michelle's hair looked when she had it up in a messy bun. He missed MJ a lot.  
  
"... If only there was a way to bring him back to himself," Peter thought he heard someone say, from all around him, distant but encompassing like Uncle Ben's voice had been in the void what felt like forever ago. He must've been imagining things, though, because there were no more twinkling souls left in this place. They had all funneled out, and he was alone, utterly alone. But the longer he strained to listen, the more there was no doubt about it.  _Was that Drax the Whatchacallit?_  "... Would he react if I suplexed him?"  
  
"You are not suplexing anybody!"  
  
"I am just trying to help! He's very durable!"  
  
"You're not suplexing a catatonic teenager."   
  
"Guys?" Peter murmured, but there was nothing but the dark.   
  
He drifted, but he could hear Peter Quill's kind voice — it was so close, it was practically in front of him.  
  
"... These guys, am I right? I bet you're sick of this whole trip by now."  
  
_What is this? What's happening?_    
  
Cutting through the empty nothingness and filling his ears:  _music_ , muffled like a heartbeat wrapped in soft cotton.  
  
_♪ Sun is shining in the sky, there ain't a cloud in sight, it's stopped raining, everybody's in the lane...  
  
And don't you know, it's a beautiful new day? He—ey! ♪_  
  
He could have swore he felt something moving over his ears — but that wasn't possible, because this place had nothing left in it. And yet Quill's voice kept speaking, soothing, hopeful. "Hang in there, kid... It's gonna be a kinda long ride to Earth, and between you and me, space can get kind of boring the more you float through it. Especially on a road trip."   
  
The song grew louder and louder, flooding his senses.  _Some_ thing warm and protective wrapped around him. It had felt different than his hallucinations of his uncle. It felt like something was tugging on his sleeve, trying to beckon him back. But there was nothing there and nowhere to beckon anymore. There was just the dark... The  _dark_...  
  
_♪ Mr. Blue Sky, please tell us why you had to hide away for so long — so long...! ♪_  
  
After the third, fourth, fifth song, all from different old singers, Peter drifted to sleep against every instinct to stay awake. He was admittedly not very good at picking apart classic music and knowing where it came from, but he knew some of it — from Ben, mainly. He loved this stuff, couldn't get enough of it... The thought drew a smile across Peter's face. "I love you, Pete," Ben had said. He had hugged Peter tightly on his thirteenth birthday, voice rough and fond. "I love you, kiddo..."   
  
Sleep was a kindness for once.   
  
Sleep was full of things that made his stomach flutter, warm and hopeful, until the next voice stirred his soul awake where it hovered.  
  
"... Pete, kid, c'mon," Tony said, and he felt hands — hands on his  _face_... he swears, he felt hands on his face, calloused from working in a lab. From fighting the battles no one else will. The shaking hands traveled down to grab his shoulders, the grip so tight it would have bruised. They weren't really there (couldn't have been, he's  _dead_ ), but he swore he could  _feel_  them.   
  
_Mr. Stark...?_  
  
"Say something," Mr. Stark said in the dark. "If you don't say something I'm gonna seriously lose it here. Don't fucking do this."  
  
The hands shook him.  _Hard_.   
  
He felt like the bits of his soul were animal bones in an old soda can, rattled around. He  _felt_ it, he swore he did. It was gone as fast as it happened, and time came and went at speeds Peter couldn't for the life and death of him know. He could hear little snippets of sound, sent through some kind of spiritual wood-chipper so that he couldn't really piece things together that well, but some things came in clearer than others.   
  
He could hear Dr. Banner, with heaviness in his voice, just to his left: "He's not a typical case, either. His metabolism is too high to do anything different, Tony, I'm sorry. He's already losing way too much weight for just being a few days back, and IV drips are only gonna get us so far. Even if he's not mentally there right now, it's not humane to—"  
  
"I  _know_ , alright? I  _know_!" Mr. Stark yelled.  
  
There was a slamming noise, a fist on metal. Peter flinched, waiting with bated breath.  
  
Waiting for the words he dreaded to hear from his idol. Something like —  _I wanted you to be better._  
  
"You're a fucking pain in the ass, Pete," Mr. Stark sighed instead, which was close enough.  
  
_I know. I'm sorry, Mr. Stark. I'm so sorry._  
  
Hopeless. Why was he entertaining the idea that this wasn't all just another hallucination in his whacked out head? But as he thought that, something warm and alive touched his arm. Some _one_. They didn't let go, and he could hear Dr. Banner as he said kindly, "Hey kid, you're pretty good at this whole meditation thing; I'm a pro at it, myself. We should go out and get some air, maybe practice on the lawn. You could use some sunlight before you turn into a lab hermit like the rest of us old men."  
  
Footfalls echoed, slow and drawn out, like a dream. Sunlight flooded his eyes, drowning out the inky soul realm in an instant.  
  
When the light bled away, he found himself on his back, looking up at Gamora's worried face, basked in an orange glow.  
  
"What happened? You were gone for a while."  
  
_Back here again...?_  
  
She seemed relieved to have him back, though, and her hand shook his shoulders like Mr. Stark must've, before.   
  
"Peter?  _Peter_ , talk to me—"  
  
He licked his lips (not real), blinked his eyes (against sunlight), listened to Gamora, listened to Dr. Banner (chattering about periodic tables, about meditation, about how it kept him sane). That song, the one that had played the loudest in his ears, it had been so familiar... Uncle Ben liked it. He liked that  _band_. What was it called?  _ELO_? Peter had never figured out what it actually stood for, and now he wished he did; he wished he went to the concerts with Ben and listened more jovially to those old vinyl records.   
  
Peter cleared his throat and sang to test the sound, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion from his trip, "... He—ey, you with the pretty face... Welcome to the human race... a celebration, Mr. Blue Sky's up there waiting..."  
  
The grass under him was itchy.  
  
Was it from this world, or the next?


	8. Chapter 8

It's not very long after her fainting spell that May feels well and ready to return to reality. And to be fair to her, finding your nephew — your child — unresponsive and no longer himself is reason enough to hide away in the depths of unconsciousness for a while. She had been ready to tear Tony Stark a new asshole, it was true, but now as she wakes up exhausted in a medical bed, she's starting to at least understand why he'd been hesitant to call her. It doesn't excuse him, not in the slightest, but she also is more than aware of Stark's involvement with Peter's life; she and Stark had one slightly drunken hang-out session together on a couch in this very same facility one night, coping in solidarity, when Tony had said so very seriously, "I loved that kid. I _love_ that kid. I'm so sorry."  
  
The day after, they both had hangovers the size of the moon, and Stark had sworn off liquor from that point on. As far as she knows, he hasn't touched it since. She still drinks sometimes, though — grabs herself a bottle that she and Ben used to save for emergency occasions, and gets _just_ tipsy enough to let her feelings bleed out while she cries on her couch or at her kitchen table. It's not a graceful response to losing the last of her family, but she figures it's understandable and a perfectly reasonable thing to do.   
  
Peter was back now. But he also wasn't. Her eyes burn with tears where she lay, swallowing a lump in her throat.  
  
"Oh, hey, welcome back to the shitshow," Bruce says from where he sits nearby. He looks over and smiles a little.  
  
"... Dr. Banner," May says politely.  
  
"Mrs. Parker," Bruce nods.  
  
"I guess I — didn't take that as well as I could've." And lord help her, the sting of tears becomes a drip of them as she fights to control what feels like sobs, bubbling up from some dark place she's always reserved for mourning Peter, in the last two years. She almost laughs at it, because of all the Parkers left standing, it had to be the two who cry the easiest, right? But Bruce doesn't say anything to her weeping. He does turn and pass her a half-used box of kleenex that she rips a few out of, studying her with a doctor's eye (is he even a real MD, she wonders?).  _One minute,_  she tells herself. She will give herself exactly one minute of being a mess, before she fixes her hair, puts on her glasses, and gets back to business. Peter is here, even if he isn't; that's enough for her to suck it up ASAP and work on a solution here.  
  
_There will be a solution_ , so help her. She sniffs hard and meets Bruce's patient gaze.  
  
"What's wrong with him?"  
  
_Where is he?  
_  
"We're not completely sure yet. We know that when the deaths were reversed, everyone's bodies reformed and were consequently re-inhabited by their souls." And you know, she had not been a big religious person through life — but the sound of someone outright admitting that souls were a real thing has her a little dizzy. Then again, half of the population died in one moment and returned from the graves years later like Jesus Christ Superstars, so who is she to be shocked by anything anymore? Bruce continues, "It's possible he's having trouble _returning_ , for some reason..."  
  
It hurts to ask, but she needs to know. She needs to be thorough. Her eyes press shut, expression pained. "How do we know he's — even  _out_ there and not still..."  
  
"He _definitely_ is out there." It's not Bruce who speaks, and May turns her head toward the doorway that leads into the medical area, where a man with sharply angled facial hair and a red leather jacket stands, tall and solemn. He seems like someone you'd see out of a Blade Runner sequel, or some kind of science fantasy adventure. He goes on, "I saw him on the other side, just before I went back to my body. He was scared to come back, I think, but he  _is_ somewhere out there."  
  
"Who're you?"  
  
"I'm Star-Lord — uh. Peter Quill's probably a better pick, actually... I worked with your son," and then clears his throat, "Er. Nephew. We both... fought together. Against the purple dickhead who did all this."  
  
She's glad the man decided to make his presence known, this... Star-Lord, Peter Quill. The next twenty minutes is a flood of information — details about Thanos and the final battle a month ago from Bruce, the story of their reawakening from Quill's side of things, and then the predictions surrounding this 'soul world' or wherever they had all been trapped in. It leaves her reeling, but it's better to know all of this than to be in the dark any more than she has been before. To think of her kid having to face these sorts of terrible things, trying to protect whole galaxies from a madman like Thanos... It makes her stomach sink to the floor. He was on the side of an alien ship, for christ's sake. It's insane, a thought that would have sent her crumpling in shock to her knees before Spider-Man became a known name in her household.

The most important question comes once they have little else to say, and their own silence trickles in heavily alongside the buzz of machines. "What can we do for him?"

"Keep his body healthy," Bruce says, hands folded. "... If you're okay with it, we'll go through with the g-tube surgery so he can get proper nutrition, and then we'll all be working on _any_ potential methods we've got to pretty much glue a soul back to a body, for lack of any better terms." Her expression pales, she knows it does, because his voice softens a little and his hand gently covers hers. "I'm not gonna lie, Mrs. Parker, it's, uh... It's all in the air. Whatever happens, it'll be by the skin of our teeth. Tony screwed up keeping you out of this, but I swear, that guy'll do whatever he has to, to make this right. He's really good at not quitting when things seem ugly."  
  
She nods. "... What can  _I_ do?"  
  
"Keep trying to bring him back," Quill says, something determined flashing in his expression. "Don't let him go yet."

* * *

  
Peter blows out a long sigh, sitting beside Gamora in a way that was becoming more and more normal for him. It's like when you move into a new apartment (because you can't afford your last one anymore), and everything seems so crazy-different? But then by the third or fourth month you couldn't imagine being elsewhere? It's that kind of thing.

It had been a while since he returned to Gamora's side, after he'd nearly been pulled through the soul realm and back out to — his body? Or at least he thinks that's what he'd seen, before the pain had pushed him back subconsciously into this place again. Explaining the whole thing to Gamora had left her lost in thought, sitting with an arm on her knee and a half-lidded gaze to nowhere. And ever since then, they've had many a conversation about what it could all mean. It's been a couple days since that had all went down, and she's never wasted an opportunity to tell him he's an idiot for not taking Quill's hand out of there.

"But what about you?" he asks, one moment in a sea of moments.  
  
"I'm dead, Peter," she says softly, patiently. "I have no body to return to."  
  
"... I can't just leave you here," he mutters.  
  
She rolls her eyes toward him. "Because you're Spider-Man?"  
  
"Because I'm _Peter Parker_ ," he says, looking at her with a small, defiant scowl. "Your friend. We're — _tight_!"  
  
A surprised pause overtakes her, before she sighs softly and shakes her head, magenta curls tossing about. A sad smile graces her lips as she places a hand on Peter's shoulder and pulls him in a little. Even though they're without their physical forms, it's... warm. Makes his soul warm, like the sunlight he'd felt when he floated in the abyss. She takes a moment to speak, as they enjoy the quiet. "The things you've told me... It means that there's a way back, do you understand? The smells of food, the sensations of being touched or the whispers in your ears from those familiar voices... If you can follow them, I think you still have a chance to fix this. I know that you said it — hurts. And I cannot imagine the feeling. But staying here in this place, it's no way to live. There are people waiting for you."  
  
"... I've tried," he whispers, defeated. He doesn't want to think about the white-hot pain scraping all up and down his insides, raw nerves twisted up in him like bundles of exposed wiring on the fritz. Every moment felt like he was old, garbage-scavanged tech, and that his archaic pieces wouldn't fit the new system. "I tried, once. To go back. I can't... I can't figure out how it worked the first time. Nothing's  _pulling_ me like it was. I mean, I get these little  _tugs_ , but..."  
  
"We'll keep working on it, then. Little tugs must mean something."  
  
"But you have people waiting for  _you_ , too.  _Gamora_."  
  
_Groot and Drax and Mantis and Rocket and Big Pete_ —  
  
She grabs his chin, turning his face toward her a bit sharply, and he winces as she peers deeply into his eyes. One of the most dangerous ladies in the universe, right there. She could probably kill someone with a glower. " _Listen_ to me,  _Peter Parker_. I will not allow you to be another one of my so-called  _father's_ casualties. If I can do one last thing as a Guardian of the Galaxy, it will be to tell you that this is not your end. I can't do much, but I  _can_ threaten to kick your ass if you stay here any longer than necessary."  
  
He gulps, eyes round and wide. "Y-yes ma'am."  
  
"Alright, then," she says, and pats his cheek as her fierce expression softens. "... How often do you meditate?"  
  
"Ummm... never?"  
  
"I figured as much. Let's work on your focus."

"That's gonna be hard. One time I was stuck in a storage vault and—"  
  
" _Peter_."  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
" _Focus_. Do as I do."  
  
"Oh, right, sorry! Focusing now. Now is the focus. I will be the Spider- _king_ of focusing—"  
  
"Shh."  
  
"... Sorry."

"Stop apologizing."

"Sor—oh."

* * *

Quill has to excuse himself not long after his talk with May to run shifts the other Guardians, around the circumference of the planet (Earth has never been more a target that it would be now, that's for certain). Bruce lets May go with a clean bill of health (though he adds both humorously and with sincerity: "but please, try to avoiding fainting anymore"), and she makes her way back through the Avengers facility. When she emerges from the medical bay she's making a beeline for the last place she'd seen her nephew, hugging her arms around herself and staving off a chill that is likely from her own nerves. Bucky's the only one left in the kitchen —  _Mr. Barnes_ , that is. May knew them all by name and face, at the very least. This man had been a criminal, hadn't he? And yet he sits here with an aura of normalcy to him, stacking used plates as he glances up during her approach.  
  
"Where is he?" she asks, feeling a trill of panic up her spine.   
  
"Being taken to the restroom," he says, rather kindly. "His head's not all there right now, but he still functions with a little normalcy... You push him along, his feet do some walking. And if you put him in a bed and pull a blanket over him, the kid's out like a light." Has her boy been getting tucked into bed by a criminal? By multiple technical criminals? She supposes she has no room to judge right now; they all saved the world, after all... and they've been overseeing what was left of her nephew. The one that will be going into surgery later today, so he doesn't starve.  
  
"He doesn't eat," she says, and she's not sure why she's trusting this sort of talk to Mr. Barnes. Maybe because it's clear that he's decided, for some rhyme or reason, to involve himself in Peter's life enough and be up-to-date on what he can and can't do. Or maybe she talks to him because he called him 'kid' and was eating his meal alongside the mute in a way that was neither babying nor pessimistic. "He's — He's lost some weight. They're..."  
  
"I know," he nods, and his calmness is helping her a little. His metal arm gleams in the light streaming through the large window, as he moves to put the dishes in the sink. Peter's plate is empty like someone ate from it, too, but she's pretty positive that it was one of the other men here leaving no meal wasted. "He'll be alright; nobody here's gonna let him suffer, that much I can promise you."  
  
And it occurs to her suddenly, that that's true. Everyone here has clearly pitched in to keep an eye out for him, despite knowing so very little about Peter. When she came in and found him sitting here in this kitchen, he was in a clean, well-pressed T-shirt — an outfit carefully picked out that  _someone_ must've been patiently changed him into. And  _someone_ had combed his hair the way he likes it, slightly to the side and not quite so wildly curled like it had been in his pre-teens.  _Someone_ had made sure he bathed and shampooed that head of his.  _Someone_ must've brushed his teeth for him.

"Who's been caring for him?"

"Mostly Stark," Mr. Barnes says without missing a beat. "But we take care of our own, here."

"One of your own?"  
  
"An Avenger. A protector — a soldier." He looks up at her. "He's done a lot for his fellow man. There's a lot to be proud of."  
  
She feels that familiar feeling of tears in the corners of her eyes, but she doesn't dare let them go any further. He's  _not_ a soldier. He's  _not_  someone who should be protecting others. He's a  _boy_ , just a kid in high school. And yet — he'd made his choice years ago, and she knows that someday she'll have to come to terms with that.  
  
"He's a... very good boy," she says after a moment, thinking about the photos of him on her walls. Of the videos she watches, to gather strength to face the day. Of the untouched presents in his room. "I couldn't be prouder."  
  
The shuffling of feet turn her around, and she wanders out impatiently into the hallway to see Steve Rogers leading Peter back towards her, one hand gently squeezing the boy's shoulder and keeping him on the right track. She can hear the captain speaking in a patient way, "Alright, Queens, one foot in front of the other. Don't get all tripped up on yourself here." Peter looks down at the ground, his feet barely lifting; a pair of converse that squeak as he goes, expensive and new, probably from Stark. Steve looks up and his expression relaxes a little. "... She's all yours, kid."  
  
May walks the distance in record time and wraps her arms around Peter, burying her face in his shoulder while Steve stands back respectfully. Her kid smells brand new, clean and fresh — warm and alive — as the long curls at the nape of his neck tickles her cheek. He doesn't hug back when she runs her fingernails along his the back of his scalp, like he used to enjoy when he was stressed out and needed a reminder that someone was there for him, in his corner. He doesn't do anything but breathe, and that's enough for now. That's something they can work with.   
  
Her voice is low and almost a whisper, but stays level. Firm. "I  _love_ you, Peter. I'll do  _whatever_ I have to, to help you come home. Okay? I promise you, baby... I'll do whatever I can. Just please, don't take too long, because I've already done my waiting."   
  
She doesn't want to assume anything, but she could swear that he leaned into her grasp with his weight, as if she could carry him out of whatever he was lost in. His eyes flutter shut beside her cheek, a facsimile of relief that everything would be okay.  
  
It would be okay.

* * *

  
Meditation  _sucks_.  
  
Peter has never really been very good at sitting still, alright? It's true that most school classes had always been a bit of an exception, a place that he could just sort of zone out and tap his feet or a pencil while he zeroed in on equations on the whiteboard... Before the spider bite, if he wasn't reading or keeping his hands busy with little robot kits or chemistry sets, he was practically running up the walls. Um. Less literally than now. That was back when he was all skinny limbs and a white boy 'fro, and his glasses were getting knocked off by bullies at least every other month. Backpacks were hard enough to replace; imagine breaking prescription lenses.  
  
He makes it about forty minutes into the first meditation session before he flops backwards and groans.   
  
"I can't see anything! It's all the same! I'm gonna go crazy."  
  
Gamora doesn't open her eyes, just resumes the pose; he would have imagined Dr. Strange doing this kind of thing, not someone as fiery and tough and reactive as her, but in her own words: 'Sometimes, the Guardians make it a necessity.'  
  
"These things take time, Peter. You need to learn how to voluntarily focus on something of your choice; in this case, you need to feel one of those moments where you're sure something from the outside is reaching in, and then you need to reach back out. Focus on your breathing, focus on the darkness, and pinpoint which of your senses you should be zeroing in on in the moment. Keeping perspective on these are things helped me through my life, when it seemed to be too much."  
  
"... Pinpointing a sense? Have you  _met_ my senses?"  
  
Peter closes his eyes, listens to Gamora's soft and sure voice as she runs him through old alien practices — things that certainly have names on Earth, if Peter were world-weary enough to know them. Adjustment. Tolerance. Time. Energy. As a being currently formed out of nothing but spiritual energy right now, the theory is that meditation _should_ be even more successful than it would have been in the flesh. And Gamora's right about that. It takes time, but eventually, it happens — like a light switch from day to night, almost too literally. Closing his eyes and reliving the darkness, it brings in the distant, muffled sounds more clearly: he hears footfalls, can feel the pressure of something on his shoulder, notes the tinny sound of squeaky converse soles on a floor.   
  
It takes hours of sitting and  _feeling_ , with his hands folded and his breathing steadied into something nearly non-existent, but it's doing something he can't comprehend. It's helping a numbed part of him gain back feeling — or, or recreates the feeling of being pulled, albeit so weakly that it does little to tether him to something tangible. But he hears  _them_ again, in the inky black world behind his eyelids. His people. The real world.  
  
_'Alright, Queens... one foot in front of the other.'_  
  
_Captain...! Mr. Rogers...!_  Steve's hand is on his shoulder, ushering him. Peter is all but blind to what's happening where he meditates, unable to look through his own physical eyes, but he knows suddenly that someone is pulling him into a warm and strong embrace — arms...! _Arms_ are around him, and he nearly twitches to hug someone back, someone who isn't in the soul realm with him and Gamora. He _knows_ that hug. He's felt that hug so many times, he'd never be able to count them, not in a million years.  
  
_'I love you, Peter.'_  
  
_Aunt May,_  he mouths, a pang in his chest.  
  
_'I'll do whatever I can.'_  
  
He feels it. He feels her holding him tight, running her hands through his hair. He wants to say something back. He wants to see through his own eyes and see her again and tell her everything'll be alright. The last thing he's ever wanted to do in his life is make her worry about him. He never told her about the bullies. He never told her about how he's watched her tally up money they do and don't have at the kitchen table, when she thinks he's in bed. He never told her how he slips money from odd jobs into her purse sometimes. He never told her about the bite, or the powers, or how dangerous life had been up until the day she found him in his suit.   
  
He just wanted to protect her, like she protected him for so long.  
  
Peter entangles his fingers in his shirt, over his chest, and feels like his whole body is glowing with love and adoration and longing.  
  
He misses her _so_ much; it feels like it's been forever since she held him like this — and when the feeling of her arms around him starts to fade, panic starts setting in.  
  
"No, no, May —  _May_ , wait! Come back!" His voice cracks as his eyes fly open, Gamora's soul realm the only thing that greets him as his outstretched hand lingers in empty air. He can't feel that warmth anymore, but the memory of it leaves him hurting in ways he hasn't felt in a while: he's homesick, so homesick he thinks he's almost literally ill from it. He unfurls from where he'd been cross-legged and hiccups a sob; Gamora gently pulls him into her arms so he can at least cry with the comforting presence of someone around him. Sometimes he hates when he acts like a kid, but right now, he just wants to cling until the ache goes away.  
  
"You felt her? You heard her?"  
  
He nods against her collarbone, too distraught to speak. May's name is a chant in his head, and Mr. Stark's humored face is a pulse behind his eyes, and Ned's laugh is a flutter in his stomach, and Michelle's hand is a vice around his heart. He misses them so much, more than he's ever realized, maybe in his whole entire life. He doesn't know how long it's been — but it's felt like  _forever_. He thinks maybe he'll feel whatever crippling pain he has to, if it means finding a way back to his body — and back to them. 

_I wanna go home._

Gamora's voice is marked by pride and approval. Stalwart. " _Good_. Rest for a little bit... then try again."  
  
It takes a while for him to gather himself — but he'll try again. However many times it takes.  
  
May's voice rings in his ears, long after the fact:  _'Just please, don't take too long, because I've already done my waiting.'_


	9. Chapter 9

One of the biggest regrets of Tony Stark's life had been when he was doing his homework in Edwin Jarvis' kitchen, at age thirteen.  
  
"Mr. Stark does care about you, Anthony. That much, I know," Jarvis had told him, after he had been struggling with one of Howard's uglier weekends. It was one particular day in which criticism had been doled out by the bucketfuls, and on those days — more often than not — Tony would ditch the main estate to go visit Jay and Ana. Ana had been too ill to come by the Stark estate for the usual chatters with his mother, so he made it even more of a priority than usual, and their housing was just close enough that it was never more than a jog away. Sometimes they would make cookies or whatever while Tony vented about how shitty his dad was and how nothing would ever be enough for him. Jarvis had been around before he was even born, so he knows that their longtime butler had dealt with the drunk asshead for a lot longer. He told him sometimes in detail, how Howard hadn't always been so bad. He told him he was a complex man with a lot to atone for, especially towards his only son.   
  
But Jarvis was way more optimistic about the future than Tony was, even if he looked tired when he talked about his father. He'd gotten grayer since Ana had fallen sick two summers back, and Tony worried more about Jarvis dying from stress than his dad dying from his muddy liver. Hell, he wasn't sure what he'd do, if Jay  _ever_ left — and sometimes he thought maybe he would decide to go, if he were smarter... maybe go to Peggy and be her right-hand man like he had been in so many tales, at the very least. But instead he lingered around, did all of his work for other people, and never complained about it; he grumbled on and on about 'Mr. Stark' and his terrible habits some days, yeah, but he was always there to offer his services without bitterness.   
  
Jarvis must have felt like he owed Howard something, Tony thought at the time.   
  
The thought made him feel sour-minded, and he couldn't help but take potshots as he chewed on the end of his pencil.  
  
"I'm  _Tony_ now. And stop trying to cover for him, Jay; if he said jump you'd ask how high.  _God_. Every time I come here, it's always gotta be a way to let your good ol' buddy Mr. Stark off the hook. Blah, blah,  _blah_ , he's a  _good_ guy deep down! He loves you, Anthony, he just doesn't know how to show it! You're as bad as Mom is at this."   
  
"It's not that," Jarvis said briskly, brow furrowed. He'd been cooking, and wiped his hands clean to turn toward the boy. "It doesn't excuse how he acts, and he deserves to be scorned for it, but it's all so much more _complicated_... He's a mess, but more than that — he simply doesn't know how to be a father. And I don't think he was ever meant to  _be_ one—"  
  
"And neither were  _you_ ," Tony spat back. "You're always trying to throw advice at me like you have any  _clue_ what it's like, when you never even  _bothered_ with kids. He's not my dad, and you're  _definitely_ not, so don't flatter yourself."  
  
" _Anthony_ ," Jarvis started, but he'd stormed out of the room and abandoned his trig homework before anymore could have been spoken, ignoring the devastation on the man's face.   
  
It wasn't until many months later that his mother had talked about what had happened to Mrs. Jarvis, how she had been shot at the estate years beforehand, far before Mom had ever become involved with the Starks. How she'd lost the ability to have children — and what it'd done to her frame of mind and to her health, for some time. Tony had sought her out in her bedroom and apologized for what he'd said to Jarvis before at the kitchen table, as if she'd even  _heard_ anything in her nap-time slumber that afternoon. She hadn't even been fazed by what he told her, looking at him like he was an oddity.  
  
"Goodness," she had laughed, light and gentle, "You've got such a guilty heart, Anthony. You remind me too much of Edwin sometimes."  
  
It was a funny thing to him, at the time. That he could remind her of his _butler_ , someone had no blood ties to, and especially since he'd always seen most of Jay's traits as good things while Tony's were — were... most certainly not anything  _good_ , as far as he was concerned. Jarvis was kind and patient, and he was morally sound, and he was always there when someone needed him. Tony didn't feel like he deserved her words, even if he feigned superiority and bravado every chance he got.

She'd added, quite content, "It's true that we haven't had our own children, but I think we've made do nonetheless."

When Ana passed a few years later, Tony had reached out and gripped Jarvis' trembling hand at the burial ceremony, his own face tear-streaked, because he wasn't sure how anyone was going to be able to survive without the witty and unyielding Ana Jarvis. "I'm sorry, Jay," he told him, looking down at a lowered coffin.  
  
"She loved you very much," Jarvis managed, and he squeezed his hand tightly. Tony could feel the hard surface of Jarvis' wedding ring. "We both love you. Very much."  
  
Jarvis hadn't cried up until Peggy Carter pulled him into her arms.  
  
That had been the  _only_ time in his life that he'd ever seen the man lose himself so fully. 

* * *

  
  
When his Mom and Dad died and  _he_ was a mess, Jarvis adjusted his black tie for him and placed his wrinkled hands on the man's shoulders.  
  
"I can't do this," he'd said, in the quiet before the funeral processions.   
  
Jarvis took his chin between his fingers and made him look into his eyes as he said this:  
  
"I'm not going anywhere. It will be my honor to be right here with you, until the very end."  
  
... It had occurred to Tony, years later as he dwelt on fatherhood, thanks to a certain obnoxious crime-fighting spiderling: Jarvis hadn't stayed because he owed Howard anything.   
  
Jarvis stayed for Tony.  
  
He laughed about it, too, because back  _then_ Jarvis had to deal with a moody teenager who always got into trouble...  
  
And there Tony was in 2016 onward, doing the same goddamn thing.  
  
Maybe he  _was_ a lot more like Edwin Jarvis than he thought.  
  
That kind of hopeful thinking sounded nice.

* * *

  
  
Two-year-olds have a lot of milestones to work through. Tony had spent a portion of his time in-between saving half of the universe and rallying troops to pull up information about babies; he was trying in vain to ignore how  _missing_  he was in most of Morgan's life, up until peace had settled over the cosmos, or whatever. It had only been a few months ago that he even had the time to really get to know her, let alone help with her upbringing; It wasn't fair to Pepper, but between her frustrations and own swirling emotions about their small family, she also had been quick to acknowledge killing Thanos and reversing the snap took a _lot_ of priority.  
  
She had family who had died, too. She had plenty to gain from repairing the known universe.  
  
But something like the end of half of civilization was hardly enough to completely deter Pepper Potts, now more properly _Pepper Stark_. She never failed to send him all the things Morgan did in his absence. He made sure to zero in on all the things that reminded him of his wife, and less on the things that reminded him of himself — which also wasn't fair to Morgan, but the idea of her being anything like a Stark made his stomach uneasy in ways a therapist would probably have a field day over. It's better than he used to be, that much is sure; years ago, the idea of being a dad would have left him with only the option of defenestration.  
  
But then he met Harley Keener. And then he met Peter Parker. And things just felt...  _different_ , after.   
  
Now he's here, and the world is relatively safe, and he's just finished taking his daughter — _his daughter_ — for a walk. It was a good way to forget about everything shitty that was happening, and yeah, he doesn't trust the world enough to take her to a real park out in New York (do you even know how many dangers there are for a toddler there?). But there's a lot of walkways here on Avengers property, out in the sunshine. He'd taken Peter walking here just this morning, and figured he'd been neglecting his kid a little too much; Peter would be pretty annoyed at him about that, pretty sure.  
  
"Okay, hang your coat up," he says, and Morgan toddles over to the hanger on her wall to deposit her favorite Disney Princess jacket (that looks like a unicorn pooped on it, just being honest). Her nose is runny and Tony makes grossed-out noises as he mops her boogers up with a handkerchief. "As children approach age 3, they comprehend most of what you say to them. What do you think about that, kid?"   
  
She says, "I'm thinking 'bout cereal," and kicks her shoes off across the room, nearly falling down in the process.  
  
"Uuuh-huh."  
  
Tony keeps a special folder on his phone that he pulls up the hologram for, and Morgan claps eagerly at the magic of it (he can relate, honestly, because sometimes he claps over technology, too). Scanning the screen, he makes note of all the things she's been working on: at her age, she should be able to jump with both feet, should be attempting catching with both hands, should be walking up stairs — they got all that covered. She can't pull her own pants up, but that's Hard Mode, so it's cool. Brushing own hair? Nailed it. Snapping snaps and zipping zippers, C+, which is absolutely okay. She can build a hell of a block tower, so that's an imaginary letter above A, and that cancels out the C.  
  
He settles down at a table way too small for him that is covered in hardened Play-Doh someone forgot to put up ( _oops_ ), one knee bent where he's slouched. "Alright, let's work on some cognitive milestones, since I've got some time to spare. You wanna read or play the party game?"  
  
Party game's just grouping things by colors. Obviously, the red and yellow blocks host the best block parties, and the lame white and blue blocks act like old boring grandpas who watch ID Investigations on the holidays; no offense to the grandpas out there, all the offense to Steve Rogers. But before he can properly set up for sorting time, Morgan's grabbing at his face with a big frown, like she's only just noticed the sizable, scabbed cut on his lip all these hours. Her mouth is a wide, surprised 'O' and her eyes are full of puzzlement more than concern (kids are so  _awful_ at actually being worried about their old man)—  
  
"Dad, dad, dad," she gasps, using two palms to sandwich Tony's head and steer him to her bidding.  
  
"The first  _dad_ was plenty, pepperoni."  
  
"Owwww, your mouth, on... your...  _mouth_. What's  _that_?"  
  
"Oh, yeah, that was a well-deserved sucker-punch." Wait, she's two. "Someone hit me because I made them mad."  
  
She kicks her foot at nothing, maybe watching one too many action flicks behind Pepper's back. "Pow!"  
  
And then she laughs crazily, like a madwoman.  
  
_You were quite the handful,_ he recalls Jarvis saying, between folding linens,  _I never got a moment's peace when you were in my care._  
  
_I suppose I prefered it that way, more than anything._

* * *

  
  
Thor coming back to his place among the Avengers is always a spectacle.   
  
He supposes he could very well wallow in everything that's happened the last few years — losing Loki yet again, losing his father, his homeland, so on and so forth — but it is better to accept the challenge of finding new things to fight for. An Asgardian prefers to persevere, and that's precisely what he plans to do. His people are in Wakanda, making a place for themselves among the infinitely wise and brave warriors under T'Challa's rule; last he visited, Shuri had been entertaining Valkyrie with an astounding assortment of weaponry, and Korg had found a strange kinship with M'Baku that mostly amounted to the man being entertained by the Kronan's oddities (and concerning stupidity). It was funny, how so many puzzles of his life seemed to be fitting together. Earth had been his home away from home; now he supposes, at least for a little while, it was well and truly the one and only.  
  
So he'd missed it, while he was away in the cosmos, putting as much distance as possible between the reality stone and the other five glorified jewels. He admittedly stayed away a little longer to give Loki the chance to come back from the grave, if he so willed it (as was his want, far too frequently). But time passed, and Loki never returned, and even still — there are no signs of the slippery weasel he'd loved.   
  
He still eyes snakes with all manner of suspicion, though.  
  
It took him little time to deliver the stupid glowy rock to the safe hands of the Galactic Keep (or he supposes that's as close to English as it can be translated) thanks to the practice of wormholes and other unpleasant manner of travel, but without the bridge and Heimdall (another loss that stings every day — so many to tally) Thor finds he has to improvise a little. He lands his ship back at the Avengers headquarters and flicks his brown false eye, cursing under his breath; Rocket needs to repair it, because it keeps waggling in the midst of a malfunction every so often.  
  
No matter. He's back with his comrades, ready to aid in the recovery efforts; walking through the halls presents him a fitting welcome wagon.  
  
"The fiercest Stark in the realm!" Thor bellows, and little Morgan runs at him with a full battle-cry. It's amusing that she never learns from her mistakes and barrels into his legs full-force, falling every time. Bless her fiery heart. He admires her boldness in wearing shoes that never seem to match, as well; quite the rebel in fashion. Tony follows after her with his hands in his pockets and a quirked brow, as Thor hefts Morgan up under his arm like she were a barrel of ale. A very tiny one. Very small. Hardly even enough for a buzz. Then he smiles like an asshole, adding over her excited woops: "And there's the more questionable Stark, with the tight pants."  
  
"Thor, are you flirting with my husband?" Pepper asks from a few footfalls back, smiling.  
  
"I would much rather flirt with you to annoy  _him_ , if we're being hon—"  
  
"Okay,  _okay_ , enough with the teasing, bring it in," Tony huffs, and gives him a quick one-armed embrace. The last two years has earned Thor many new friends and foes, but he also has to reflect on just how important the Avengers have become to him over the years — especially now that most everyone he loves from home has passed on to great feasting tables in Valhalla. With regards to the Avengers breaking up — well. He'd had a lengthy update on what had happened in his absence with Rogers and Stark, and it was probably the most frustrating retelling he's ever had the displeasure of sitting though, but he can at least happily skip over any awkwardness now that they've kissed and made up.  
  
"Everything's where it should be on my end," Thor tells him, and Tony seems appeased.  
  
"Good. One less rock to babysit. You sure these Gastric Creeps can handle something like that?"  
  
"More than sure.  _Now_ —  Where's your young ward? I must meet this fan of mine, now that I've returned properly."  
  
Thor doesn't expect the surprise on Stark's face, then turned grim. The man had told him about the boy at length before, at some midpoint between the snap and the unsnapping: about Parker's impressive abilities, his excellent moral compass, and his terribly obvious boy-crush on Thor and other heroes like him. In fact, he'd gotten to watch with some bitter-sweetness the videos recorded off of Karen, when Peter had pissed the day away mimicking him and the others from the team. He'd been more than eager to tease the lad relentlessly about it when they'd finally meet.

So it's concerning, when his first genuine meeting is an unresponsive figure sitting in the lounge area. Romanoff is sitting with her leg crossed over the other, reading aloud from the New York Times, and stops to give Thor a slight smile and a warm welcome. It quickly occurs to him that she's reading  _at_ Peter — not quite  _to_ him. The reasoning takes little explanation, and by the time he's sat down, May Parker is passing along a dinner plate and joining them, watching her nephew like a hawk; she would be lingering around for a few weeks on paid leave, which was simply a fancy way of saying Stark had paid her place of work a hefty sum to carry on without her for a time. Despite all her woes, she is an animated speaker, with a lightness and informality to her that is so often rare in Asgard.  _Humans_. Someone like Thor is seen as god-like to them, and yet Earth's people are just as malleable, just as a spiritually unparalleled in power.   
  
She's lost everything, and yet maintains such an enduring spirit, unknowing if Parker will return to them undamaged. 

"You're a strong woman, Miss Parker," he says, gulping down overly cheesy macaroni. "I envy your strength, in fact."  
  
"I'm really not," she says, shaking her head and smiling; her fingers have been interlaced with Parker's all the while, as the boy sleeps against her shoulder. "If you'd seen me the last two years, I can definitely say I'd been a mess that no broom could clean up. And now, with him like this, I just... I'm just keeping it together for him, now."  
  
"And as I said, I envy you for that." He places the bowl down, quieting. "I had lost everyone in my family, the last few years. It's been a path I'm ashamed to say hasn't been handled as gracefully as I would have liked. I threw myself headlong into battle to avoid the pit in my chest. And because of that, I've made mistakes that may have cost many people greatly, all because I was reckless with my life — and therefore theirs."  
  
"... You're here, though," she says. "And so is two halves of a universe. I think that must count for something."  
  
Thor smirks softly. "I suppose so."  
  
There's a warm understanding that settles between them; two people who have clung to what little they have left.  
  
"Now," he says, clapping his large hands on his knees. "Tell me  _all_ about this  _Peter Parker_."  
  
And she does.


	10. Chapter 10

_"Hello, welcome to Taco Bell — are you interested in trying our Nacho Fries BellGrande today?"_  
  
"Um, hello! Hi! Nice day, huh? Can we have... crap, I don't even know. How many Avengers are there again, peanut?"  
  
"Dad, I bet Thor could eat fifty tacos."  
  
"No way. Actually, no, you're absolutely — wow, it's a good thing this is on Stark's tab, I can't afford fifty tacos—"  
  
_"Sorry, sir, I didn't catch that?"_  
  
"Oh, yes! Sorry! I'll take... the menu?"  
  
_"The — menu?"_  
  
"One of each, please! My dad's ordering for a bunch of super—"  
  
"No, Cassie— shh!! Yes, please. The menu. Like, all the things. All the sodas. Whatever you can make in there. Is there an Order All Button?"  
  
_"I — sorry, we need to put those in individually, there's no... 'order all' button..."_  
  
"Shoot. I'll just list 'em, then; what in the world are Naked Chicken Chips?"  
  
"They're like triangle chicken nuggets. Dad, Bry-Ant wants Cinnabon Bites, don't forget the Cinnabon Bites."   
  
"Bry-Ant can eat  _plant nectar_  like a  _normal_ over-sized bullet ant."   
  
_"Did you say an ant?"_  
  


* * *

 

"... a Loaded Potato Griller, one of those 7-Layer burritos... one Cantina Power bowl..."

 

"Dad, there's people honking behind us."

 

* * *

  
  
Scott Lang had a  _hell_ of a time, after the snap. Thanks for asking.  
  
And it was even worse thanks to being in the dark for the most part — but then Hope and Hank vanished, and of course Paxton and Maggie had been suddenly just gone with them, leaving Cassie to... Well, it had taken a lot to get her back to her old self, after the things she had to see. He couldn't imagine  _watching_ the people you loved dissolving in front of you, and to be alone and wandering helplessly in a world gone frantic—  
  
It's over, that awful shit is over. Everyone's back, and Cassie is smiling and happy again, and that's what matters now. There's hope now, and everyone's eyes are brighter, more alive than they've been in what feels like forever. His kid's gonna turn twelve soon and all of her family and friends will be there, dumping presents in her lap and giving her so much candy and cake she'll turn into a sourpatch kid. It's weird not really playing with tea sets anymore, but he's more than happy to buy her something else; what are the pre-teen kids into these days? He thinks of Brittney Spears and those funky jelly choker necklaces, and feels woefully old.   
  
At any rate, she's feeling sound enough to enjoy a trek across the country with her old man. They've been hitting up all kinds of places. Some awesome, some questionable — the big ball of twine was kind of nifty? They even let them add onto it with a big spindle thingy, which was just their kind of ridiculous. Honestly, it's the best he's felt in a long time, as he pulls up to the Avenger's headquarters (after his ID card failed to beep him in for way too long). This is the  _life_ , cruising along in your beat-up car, your back seat smelling suspiciously like a drunk after-party at 2 a.m. when all the other food joints are closed, there's a huge freaky ant clicking away with its head out the window—  
  
"I hope you don't expect me to carry all this in," Happy says when Scott pulls up, as the older man eyes the full back seat. There are too many bags to count. _Two-hundred and thirteen dollars and fifteen cents_ worth of fast food that pretends to be actual Mexican food. Scott's mouth falls open in an attempt to plead for Happy's help, when Tony Stark appears magically behind the man, like a goddamn bearded cherub in amber-yellow shades.  
  
"Oh, cool, lunch is here. Happy, could you bring these in? Thanks."  
  
Scott gives a pleased head-wagging smile in Happy's (unhappy) direction. "Yes, thank you. So much."  
  
"Hey, Mr. Stark!" Cassie hollers from the window; Scott swears there's something a little startled about the glance Tony gives her, but then he's back to looking typical Stark mode, motioning the kid to follow as Happy curses under his breath about how he can't even  _have_ fast food anymore on his new diet—   
  
Cassie motions to the back of the car. "Did you meet Bry-Ant? He's my pet."  
  
Tony eyes the giant-sized creature skittering out the window, jumping back a little. "He's absolutely repulsive — which makes him perfect for this place. Bring him in and put him in Rogers' room, ASAP."  
  
The girl laughs excitedly. "Sure! And hey, is Clint here? I wanna show him my chupacabra drawing; we practiced last time he was here."  
  
"Oh, yeah, yeah, just make hawk noises until he answers from wherever he's nesting."  
  
Scott grins as she runs off... though he has to ask: "Does he really nest?"  
  
"No, not, at all, he hates that joke." A pause. "I'm pretty sure Wilson does, though."  
  
The image of Sam in a chicken-like nest flapping his arms startles a laugh out of him. They start walking at a natural pace while Happy fumbles with far too many brown paper bags in the distance, and for once it feels genuinely good to be on Avenger turf; usually there's some world-ending event, or everyone's getting into fisticuffs over something or another. For a group made to defend the world, they sure suck sometimes at cooperating sometimes. But that's then, this is now, and Scott's more than happy to start fresh like he's done before, walking out of San Quentin.  
  
"I've got all the files you want, from Pym's lab — just FYI, he's so bitter about handing anything remotely helpful over to you, I think his exact words were something like _'I would rather get shot again than have to talk to a Stark'_ , so — here you go."   
  
Tony takes the USB, tucking it into his jacket pocket. Kinda weird attire, combined with the cat shirt. "I get that a lot. And thanks."  
  
"How's Morgan doing?"  
  
"Oh, you know. Growing almost as fast as you do in the suit. Carnivorous. Pees on things." There's an easy quiet that falls over them; deeper in the hallways, he can hear the telltale sounds of Clint and Cassie discussing the importance of Big Foot — and how they should all together visit the woods and try to catch him on tape. The others are all hovering around and enjoying the quiet after what must've been a laborous weekend full of politics and things Scott is more than happy to avoid (he did enough, he isn't gonna be guilted into doing any more than saving trillions of people or whatever, he did his time).   
  
There's a kid sitting on one of the couches that Scott's aware is Peter — it's awkward to stare, right? Right. He doesn't stare.  
  
Tony speaks up, breaking him out of his staring that he absolutely wasn't doing. "How's Cassie?"  
  
"Oh! She's good. She's — y'know. She's herself. I'm relieved to say that at this point, after everything that's happened." He doesn't like to go back to that time, when she wouldn't even talk to him; she'd just shut everyone out and sit in silence, disinterested in the things she loved, wondering when her mother and stepfather and so many of her friends and family would come back. There was nothing more devastating than calling out to her with her nickname and seeing her try to force a smile, plastic and fake and empty. Emptiness is so much worse than misery, he'd realized in that moment.  
  
When Scott speaks again, it's lower.   
  
"... Thanks again, by the way. For the help. The therapy, and all of that. It really helped her, like... a lot. You didn't have to do that."  
  
"Of course I did." Tony glances at him, but keeps his voice equally low and — surprisingly — with some measure of sincere empathy in his voice; Scott's not used to it, when he's mostly the recipient of Stark's jokes and dry wit. "We're in the Dad Club, it's mandatory we throw some bones at each other. I give you a counselor, you give me Nacho Supremes."  
  
"You technically bought all that, though."  
  
"It's the thought that counts."  
  
Natasha perks from the counter she's perched on, just behind Clint. Apparently everyone's cool with watching Happy struggle. "Is that Taco Bell?"  
  
Stark splays his hand in a gesture in front of him. "For some reason, you're the last person I expected to be excited about fake Mexican food around here."   
  
"Maybe I just enjoy the taste of sawdust and cardboard."  
  
"Taco Bell?" Thor perks, from around the corner. (When'd he get back?) "I've had these tacos you're speaking of in ice-cream form. Is there another?"  
  
"This is the most ridiculous cluster of people I've had to deal with," Clint adds from the table, where Cassie and he have been devising a proper folklore monster trap; they're apparently going to hit the road and become Winchesters, or something. Saving people, hunting things, the Avengers business. "I call dibs on anything chulupa-shaped."  
  
The table is covered in bell-themed bags and mountains of different sauces (one packet says  _"Of all the hot sauces, why me, why now?"_  and he kind of feels bad opening it), and Scott is able to say with a definite fact that Thor really  _could_ put away fifty tacos if he wanted. Watching him destroy half the table was almost as engaging as a football game for the others in the room. Once the damage is wrought, Scott inevitably ends up chatting away with Bruce about something Pym-related — Banner has a real fangirl thing for Hank, which is just a tragedy, because that old man is  _obviously_ uncool — and it takes Scott a moment to realize Cassie's disappeared from the table.   
  
He kind of almost panics, but then he realizes that's absolutely ridiculous, because she's almost twelve and is more than capable of wandering off to the bathroom or literally anywhere else besides mortal danger. So he does a logical thing: he doesn't freak out and turns around  _first_. And there she is not a few paces away, sitting with her back against the bottom of a couch and chatting at —  
  
Oh, at Peter Parker.   
  
He knows the story there (everyone does, it spreads like wildfire; he heard from Sam), but he knows Cassie sure doesn't know why this boy is silently watching a wall as a pastime. Wincing, he wanders over, nearly bumping into May in the process.  _Stupid, stupid._  
  
"Oh,  _shoot_ , I'm sorry."  
  
"It's okay," the woman says, pushing long brown locks from her face as she smiles a little. She looks a little tired, and Scott can't help but feel a pang of concern for the adoptive mother. Because  _god_ , he knows what it's like, when your kid isn't their self anymore, and the life is practically sucked from their eyes, and they seem like they're just moving on wires. Cassie was fixable, and while Scott's not a pessimistic asshole by any means, he isn't sure if anything will bring this kid back to himself. May smiles a little at his worried brow-line. "I was just about to take Peter here for his own feeding."  
  
"He can't eat with us?" Cassie asks innocently enough, not remotely bothered by Peter's state and sitting leg-to-leg with him.  
  
May just smiles patiently, warmed by her good nature.  
  
"Oh no, he has to eat through a little button on his stomach; it's a tube that food goes through, because he doesn't really eat very well."  
  
"Does he not even drink stuff? Not even pink lemonade?" She looks at Peter and talks at him, probably not quite getting the direness of the situation; Scott mentally kicks himself for not giving her a heads-up. She continues excitedly, "I love lemonade. Mom makes it for me when I'm stressed out."  
  
May looks at the scene with some measure of melancholy. "Unfortunately not... but I'm hoping he will soon, though. When he's better."  
  
"I'm sure he will be! I was a lot like him sometimes, too. I was like—" She makes a cuckoo circle at her head, and that's gonna be a whole 'nother conversation to have with her (oh my god Cassie). But the girl seems to be a little more subdued when she says, "But then I talked to people a little more... He probably just needs to talk it out, and he'll feel way better. And he'll be more like himself in no time."  
  
"He can't really talk, kiddo," Clint says, having wandered over — or hovered, more like, like the moon being drawn to the earth.  
  
(He freaks out when kids vanish, too. He looks and panics and worries it's all gonna happen again—)  
  
Cassie's head jerks back a little, a skeptical look in her eyes as she turns to Clint. "Of course he can talk. Just not very much."  
  
An uncomfortable silence falls over them. Cassie seems more than a little confounded by the heaviness in the air.  
  
"... What do you mean, sweetheart?" May asks.  
  
"I was... talking to him about how nice honey and lemon tea is, and he said he was thirsty."  
  
"Peanut, that's — " Scott starts, and looks at May, "I'm sorry, she's got an active imagination, s-so."  
  
"I'm not making it up, Dad! God, I'm not seven. He  _said_ he was thirsty, and I asked if maybe he could have some tea, and he  _said_ yes!"   
  
"What's going on?" Tony mumbles to Clint from where he'd wandered into the thick air of bated breaths.  
  
Cassie looks at Peter and continues confidently, "He told me he had a friend named Gamora who would like some tea, too."  
  


* * *

  
  
When Scott and Cassie go to their room for the night, it's after much fanfare around the shocking news —  _Peter Parker spoke._  And of course, the only person who had gotten to hear it was his kid, someone who had a habit of running wild with her mind a little. He felt a little guilty, assuming it had been one of her backsliding predicaments, where she'd shave a few years off her age and start playing  _pretend_. Those episodes are few and far between now, and there was little doubt by the time they'd all went to bed: Cassie had no way of knowing who Gamora was. It sparked happy tears from May and excited chattering from the facility at large, lit a sort of fire under Stark's ass, and left Bruce constantly monitoring the teenager's brain waves. Someone contacts the Guardians from their position a couple of light years away, and Quill's face apparently blanches many shades, like he's turning into Casper the friendly ghost.  
  
Peter Parker had been this way for nearly two weeks now, Scott had come to learn.   
  
Two weeks of nothing, and then, suddenly, like lightning to a tree:  
  
_Proof of life._  
  
As Scott and his daughter listen to eager voices bounce around outside their room, Cassie on his twin bed and him in a pallet on the floor—   
  
( _"Please don't leave me alone, dad, I'm not good at staying alone."_  
  
"You never have to worry about being alone, peanut, I'm here.")  
  
— Cassie's reserved and concerned voice drifts through the air:  
  
"Did I do something I shouldn't have?"  
  
"No, no, noooo, you didn't. Everyone was just really shocked, because he hasn't really spoken or moved on his own in a long time."  
  
"I wanted to help," she whispers, and he turns his head to observe her troubled expression.  
  
"... You  _did_ help. You did something amazing today, kiddo. Hero-status amazing." He looks at the ceiling and thinks of the last two years, and how utterly devastating everything had been. It was like a mountain: first a terrible, painful trek against gravity, and then a slow but blissfully light journey down its slope. He smiles a little, breathing softly. "... Now they've got hope, and that's something you can't go without. Y'know?"  
  
"Yeah..." She quiets for a moment. "When you talked to me before, it helped me a lot. Even when you thought it didn't... I promise it did."  
  
Scott has to find his voice for a moment. He swallows hard, feeling his eyes burn.  
  
"... I'm glad it did, because I don't know what I would've done without my best sidekick."  
  
She turns her head and looks up at him. He turns his and looks down at her.   
  
"Peter's gonna be okay," she says with confidence.  
  
"Y-yeah, I think he will be."  
  
She smiles, all teeth. "I'll be okay, too."  
  
It's the best thing he's ever heard in his entire life.  
  
"Y-yeah. Everyone's gonna be okay."


	11. Chapter 11

  
Tony usually finds himself caught up in a particular pattern, when things are absolutely godawful: try to solve it,  _fail_ at solving it (spectacularly), drink and brood, panic a lot, and then somehow magically see some light at the end of a tunnel. And when that moment arises, he works and works and works — and he smiles as he does it, because he finally has something his hands can do for him other than shake as his anxiety builds. Peter's re-emergence, however short, was that light at the end of the tunnel, but it left him asking questions:  _how do I fix this now? What is the next step? What can I do, to solve the equation that is Peter Parker?_  The answer isn't as enjoyable as his other 'Aha!' moments, but it's still something nonetheless.   
  
Everyone is huddled around the couches in keen interest at their mute cargo, and even Strange has made a short return to learn of what little progress had been made with his own ears. Peter had been an unfortunate casualty of heroism in these halls, more like a ghost or a reminder. They worked with him like he'd been a shot in the dark, because he really was one; nobody knew whether or not they were housing a dead kid reanimated. Wanda had been adamant about it before, but now she watches from a small distance with uncertainty in her stare. They're clustered like Peter would humor them and appear before their very eyes — almost like children waiting for Santa to deliver presents and eat up all the cookies, and it's ridiculous and not realistic at all, but none of them can peel their attention away tonight.  
  
They've been so  _elbow_ - _deep_ in hero work outside of the facility, they can give up some time for  _this_.  
  
"There's still no actual activity going in his head," Bruce says from where he's standing almost timidly, tapping a pen into his hand.   
  
"Something's clearly tethering him to his body, though," Strange says. The man had no memory of the soul world, from what he'd told Tony — something that no doubt frustrated him, ' _Master of the Mystic Arts_ ', or whatever dumb schtick he kept correcting. Tony was more than happy to bust the guy's balls every chance he got and he'd do it again now, but his stomach is too busy being in knots over Peter's potential return.  
  
Clint rubs a hand over his mouth. "If Cassie had no way of knowing about Gamora, then—"  
  
"Then he's out there, trying to come back," Nat concludes, fingers laced where they hang over the backrest of the couch.  
  
"Mr. Quill was right," May says, mumbling almost to herself now, "We keep trying to bring him back."  
  
"Alright, that's easy enough," Rhodes says. "We just gotta keep talking at him, maybe do things the kid's familiar with."  
  
Tony is a little awed by the cooperation going on in the room. But he supposes one child in need is a hell of a lot easier to come together about than Sokovia Accords. His hands still feel utterly useless — but he's relieved, like maybe they'll really get to see Peter, whole and mended, like he is in so many of Tony's guilt-riddled dreams (just before they become nightmares). It's funny because in the long run, the people in this room all will be scattered in the wind for the weeks, months, years to follow, cleaning up corruption and damage wrought by Thanos and his terrible deeds... but they can all come back here, and they can all assemble as a unit for at least one socially awkward spider kid that most of them have never even gotten to formally meet. If they can't save one teenager, what good are they? What good is he? All the victories in the world aren't enough, not until there's recognition in Peter's eyes when he looks back at Tony.  
  
Then sleep will come so much easier. The memories he has with the kid won't be tarnished by how badly he'd failed him.  
  
"Alright, I'll put it on the whiteboard. Operation Itsy Bitsy Spider, underway."  
  
They all agree to help. Tony doesn't ask why they all decide to so quickly.  
  
He doesn't  _need_ to know, as long as it means he's got more hands across the board, beside his own.   
  
When he palms the back of Peter's neck with a firm, supportive grip, he's happy to find his fingers aren't shaking.  
  
"We gotcha', kid."  


* * *

 

( _"You got bit by a spider? Can it bite me? Well, it probably would’ve hurt, right? Whatever. Even if it did hurt, I’d let it bite me. Maybe. How much did it hurt?"_

_"The spider’s dead, Ned."_ )

  
When Ned met Peter, it was during a low point in both of their school careers: seventh grade, when he was on the ground with a black eye, and Peter trying vainly to put himself between Ned and one of many school bullies (who probably had a helluva' lot to work through mentally). It ended with the kid darting off at the harsh sound of a pissed-off teacher, and then Ned peeled one confused eye open to Peter Parker sniffing blood back up his nose and trying not to cry. It was a funny thing to him, 'cus he could hold his own  _way_ better than this bony, puny kid — in fact, he was about to get back up and start throwing the weight people made fun of around, before Peter's pencil-thin shadow eclipsed him.  
  
"You defend other people, but you don't ever stick up for yourself," Ned told him as they walked down the hallway, "What's up with that?"  
  
"I don't know," was his quiet answer.  
  
The bottom line was that Peter Parker thought very little of himself. He was practically a turtle, ducking into his collar almost comedically at the first sign of social discomfort. He wore these big-ass glasses and he didn't know the meaning of the words 'hair gel' just yet, so his hair was fast approaching little-orphan-Annie stages. And his choice in style has not once changed in all the time Ned's known him: cheap sweaters, button-ups, and the goofiest nerd shirts you could dream up. He wasn't a  _caricature_ of a nerd like you'd see in old movies, with the pocket protectors and slicked hair and pants up to the navel, but he was a perfect  _Exhibit A_  of one in real life. And hey — so was Ned.   
  
They were both smart and loved stuff to a probably too-passionate degree, so they hit it off so quickly.   
  
People liked to point out what a 'fat-ass' he was, but it didn't bother him the way it rightfully could've. It was just that he was comfortable with himself and had confidence in what his brain could do, even if he wasn't the beef-cake sports star his older brother had surfed his way into, so he did Peter a solid and let him leech some of that confidence off of him. Peter didn't take much, but he at least stopped hiding in corners to do his homework, and  _y'know_ , once he got him to stop being so anxious about things — so isolated in his own little bubble — Peter was flippin' hilarious.   
  
He was witty and he had a brain as big as his heart, which was no easy feat. He snorted jokes that nobody else would get but Ned, and they would stay up way,  _way_ too late playing video-games at Ned's place. He knew Ben and May didn't make much, so Peter's room was pretty sparse compared to his, and that was fine. He liked being the friend who could give Peter whatever. He'd buy the big LEGO sets, he'd get the new fighting video-game, he'd take Peter out to the arcade so they could blow all their money on House of the Dead 4. He loved Peter. He loves Peter. He missed Peter, he misses Peter. College is fine and dandy and all, but he spent too much of it looking out his window and wishing his best friend had been there by his side. Especially through the boring classes.  
  
Peter had escaped out of their school bus, and Ned never got to say goodbye.  
  
He stared at an alien spaceship while Peter swung away to defend them from it, and he never got to  _thank_ him.  
  
Not for being Spider-Man and protecting them, but for being Peter Parkerand protecting him.  
  
( _"... Do you lay eggs?"_  
  
_"What? No-ho-hooo."_  
  
_"Can you spit venom?"_  
  
_"No."_  
  
_"Can you summon an army of spiders?"_  
  
_"... No, Ned."_ )  
  
Now he's standing outside of May's apartment, watching with a hammering heart as Peter's led down the familiar hallways; when she told him he'd be coming home in an attempt to jog him free of his mental prison, Ned was more than happy to drive a couple of hours at the drop of a pen (probably driving too fast, Peter'd be so mad at him for being an idiot like that). It wasn't gonna be easy, it was never gonna be easy, because Peter's all sorts of messed up — but Ned would always be there for him, alright? He would always be that guy in the chair, waiting for his friend's call. And there he is alongside May, not himself but undoubtedly alive. It takes approximately five seconds for him to burst into tears and cross the distance that had been so wide and vast weeks before.   
  
May steps aside and gives them space, and Ned stands there swaying Peter side to side in his big arms, encompassing him and getting his shirt all wet. It's a dam that he'd been meticulously building, chipping only at things Peter should have been at — things like high school graduation, or his first boyfriend, or the birth of his little niece, or his eighteenth birthday, when he was officially a grown-ass adult (but not really, because being an adult is boring, right, Peter?). He hates how he cries — he hates how high his voice is when he sobs, and he hates how ugly and pinched his face gets. But for Peter, he'll cry. Oh, he'll cry, because he's walked through two years of a life marred by a friend-shaped hole — a series of dotted lines where someone snipped Peter right out of his world.   
  
"I missed you so much, I missed you  _so much_ ," he manages, thickly. Peter doesn't move, barely even seems to breathe in his arms, but it's more than anything they've gotten in so long. The halls of the apartment feel desolate, like its just them in the silence, just his buddy and him, his number one accomplice, his reason for bold-faced lying to teachers and family and friends alike. "I love you man, I'm so glad you're here — we're gonna make this better, I swear, Peter. I'm gonna help you. I can't believe you're really here. My freaking hero." 

( _""You were here?"_

_"Yeah."_

_"You could’ve_ _died_ _."_ )

  
He takes Peter's hand firmly and walks him to the apartment door.  
  
"I haven't cried this hard since my chihuahua Simpson had to be put down. Uncool, dude."  
  
The hand around his twitches. He doesn't notice.  
  
May is dabbing at her eye with a kleenex out of a box on her kitchen counter when he leads him back inside; a third of his emotions are dull pangs of worry and loss as Peter stands like a withered scarecrow in the middle of the apartment. He will come back, he tells himself. He's Spider-Man, he always comes back. And anyway, Ned can talk so much that the air'll have no time to settle into despair. "MJ's gonna freak when she gets back from visiting her grand-folks. You know, a heck of a lot's happened — but lucky you, most of our favorite franchises were put on hold thanks to the whole — y'know, half the casts being wiped out thing. Which is super fucked up, right? Pardon my language, May, sorry. Peter is 100% innocent and an angel and would never cuss."  
  
May laughs. "I somehow have my doubts."  
  
Ned talks for the two of them. Enough for fifty Peters. He sits at the table as May prepares Peter's favorite chicken meal she makes sometimes, the one with the spice and lemon and all that. Peter can't eat it, but she says Sam Wilson (the Falcon? holy crap, the  _Falcon_ ) says it helps with what's going on, maybe. Ned can eat for both of them, especially because he's  _starving_ , honestly; he hasn't eaten since May called him and told him Peter would be coming home. That waaaas... eight hours ago? His stomach gurgles angrily at him as he nudges Peter where he sits beside him. "Oh! And I got a boyfriend. Yep, I'm officially batting for both sides. That's probably really weird to hear like this, right? But that's totally not my fault that you missed my coming out party. I mean, it wasn't really a party, more like me freaking out at telling my parents. And neither of them seemed to even remotely care or anything! What the hell was up with that, huh? I thought it'd be like a dramatic ABC television show, but they just kept watching Jeopardy."  
  
Peter was his first crush.   
  
Kinda funny, that.  
  
( _"Hey, can I be your guy in the chair?"_  
  
"What?"  
  
"Yeah. You know how there’s a guy with a headset, telling the other guy where to go? If you’re in a burning building, I could tell you where to go. There’d be screens around me, and I could swivel around — I could be your guy in the chair!")  
  
Ned helps Peter go pee and washes his hands in the sink for him, and adjusts his bangs a little for him the way he remembers him liking it. Then they start back to the nice smell of something nice in the oven, and Ned's voice has become the buzz of the room, thrumming confidently and filling the space around them as it almost always does, even before Peter had vanished. It almost feels natural again, but he would give all of his tuition to hear his friend's voice again (shushing him and telling him to keep it down, he was always so noisy, Peter was always so quiet, even when he was excited).   
  
They converge again in the kitchen and Ned steps forward to smell the air in earnest anticipation. "Man, May, you're killing me over here. That smells so flipping good."  
  
"It's one of the only things I think I never burn," she says, adjusting the bun on her head. "No Thai tonight, I think we... actually... n..."  
  
Ned worries for a second that May's having a stroke or something with the weird trailing and the sudden paleness that bleaches across her face — but then he hears the creak of the floorboards behind him and turns to see Peter's back as he wanders away. Into his room. On his own. His breath catches in his throat and for once he's struck mute by the scene; neither of them dare say anything in case the spell is broken, but May drops her oven mitt and follows after the roaming body. Ned is quick on her heels, eyes wide and hopeful.   
  
_Peter, Peter, Peter,_ he chants in his head.  
  
In the small bedroom they'd spent so many nights hanging out in, the teenager stands with his hands at his sides, not particularly looking at anything — not even the stack of dusty and untouched Christmas and birthday presents strewn on his desk (some are from Ned, of course, of  _course_ some would be). It's just him standing there, but it's big, because he  _moved_. He walked into his own room without anyone touching him. It has to  _mean_ something, just like him talking to that little girl meant something.  
  
After a few beats of heart-stopping silence, May carefully calls out to him.  
  
"Peter?"  
  
Peter doesn't seem to hear her. Instead he slowly pulls back the blankets on his bunk bed and crawls under them, nestling into the pillow and — and closing his eyes. They both stand there in awe for a long moment, watching Peter's breathing even out, their wet and wide-eyed stares turning to meet each other's. Ned isn't sure whether he should laugh or not, but he thinks Peter would love it if he laughed — so he does, hoarsely, his heart feeling fluttery and full of hope. "Did he just dip on us for a nap?"  
  
"He just ditched us for his bed," she says, and laughs, too.   
  
The two of them  _probably_ look and sound like crazy people, but they both laugh so hard, he very nearly pisses himself.  
  
( _"It looked so insane. That whole — like, it was just crazy. He — He was just, like… bzzzht!! And you were like… aaah! And then I just hit him with the… pssht! It was so — Oh, my God."_  
  
_"I mean, you saved me."_ )  



	12. Chapter 12

_... Ten..._  
  
Sam is more than fucking surprised to see Peter walk back into the facility by his own volition; his jaw practically drops, and in the span of a few days Peter's making his way to the kitchen every morning on his own. He sits down in a chair he's apparently called dibs on, Sam makes food and puts it in front of him, and absolutely none of it is eaten. One of the super soldiers with the bottomless stomach take it over from there — the point of the matter is, something is happening, more than anything else has happened in the last few weeks. Sam can see it, maybe not in Peter's eyes, but in his actions: the kid is fighting tooth and nail. He's gotta be.  
  
The king of Wakanda stops by, just for a business trip — he and his younger sister, who is precocious as all hell and glued to her phone the whole time they're having an Avenger-styled meeting in the office space reserved for that kind of boring shit. Once all is said and done, T'Challa is more than happy to visit Sam in the kitchen, his black suit pressed and a strong antonym to Shuri's "I ♥ NEW YORK" shirt and atypical jewelry. T'Challa sits down at the offer of breakfast and lingers there to talk to the other man about this and that — differences in growing up, mostly, from one dark-skinned dude to another — when T'Challa is startled by the presence of someone just standing beside him.  
  
Peter is practically pushing on him with his full weight, not looking at him, but no less invasive. And while Mr. Panther here knows about Peter in shorthand explanations, he is hardly prepared to have a bony teenager's shoulder nudging at him like a toy robot hitting a wall.  
  
"What in the world—" T'Challa manages, leaning back in vain.  
  
"Oh, you're in  _his_  special chair," Sam says as he waves a spatula, trying not to burst out laughing at the panic on the catman's face. He owes Peter a favor for the hilarious expression he's managed to paint on one of the top kings of the world. " _Nobody_  gets in Peter's special chair."  
  
"I'm — I'm sorry?" T'Challa stammers, and leaps up from the chair. "I meant no disrespect—"  
  
Peter plops down immediately after the chair's unoccupied, and Shuri grins impishly from her own spot.   
  
"The king has been  _dethroned_."

 

* * *

  
_... Nine..._  
  
Happy knows he's an asshole. He knows for a while he couldn't stand Peter — not because the kid did anything wrong, but because he was just that kind of person. It was hard to connect to people. It was hard to trust people not to let you down, or vice versa; Happy was always afraid of letting someone down in return. So yeah, when the bossman handed off a child to him because he didn't want to face what he did (they all knew practically dragging a kid away from home was a shitty idea, alright), he was a little  _sour grapes_  about it.  
  
But then Peter could've died crashing a plane and fighting alien technology on his watch, and things got a little more heavy for him.   
  
Peter saved his ass, in a way that wasn't quite swooping in and saving a civilian from a mugger, or a car running a red.  
  
Oh, sure, he was still an asshole to Peter sometimes, but it came with the mutual understanding that Happy would definitely take a bullet for the kid. He made Tony happy, too, and that was a bonus on top of everything else. But now that things are the way they are, he wishes he could have made it more obvious, that he cared. That Peter was definitely in his adoptive circle, alongside Pepper and Tony and Rhodes — and Morgan, who is one of the few people in the place that can make him smile like an idiot.   
  
"I never did apologize to him, for blowing him off so much before. Ignoring calls and texts, all that."  
  
He was supposed to be the point man. Boy, did he fuck that right up.  
  
"Why don't you just tell him how you feel now?" Pepper asks him, as she walks Morgan and Happy walks Peter. Miss Parker had been worn down from keeping track of Peter, and her work was practically self-destructing without her, so Happy had easily swore he'd make sure nothing was happening while she was out; when  _he_ offers to do something, he does it, no questions.  
  
Happy looks at Peter, swallowing hard. "What if he can't hear it? Or he hears me all wrong?"  
  
"How's it any worse than not saying anything?" she says, with a smile. "Tony talks to him all the time. And when Morgan was born and couldn't understand a lick of English, Tony talked to her like she was a lab flunky."  
  
"That sounds like him, yeah."  
  
"The point is, sometimes it's not just about having him understand what you're saying. Sometimes it's just about making that connection."  
  
"... Talking to him like a baby?"  
  
"Talking to him like you love him."  
  
Happy sighs softly, the fingers pinching Peter's sleeve curling into a gentle fist. Talking to someone like they love them — that's hard. That's insanely hard. How do people do it so easily? He loves Pepper and the others to death, but he's never been good at expressing it; he's never been good at much of anything, his mother'll tell you. People change though. He's definitely changed for the better, since he started working for Tony Stark. Say what you want, nobody can take that away from him.  
  
"Can you give me a minute with the kid?" he asks, and she and Morgan start down a split in the sidewalk, back toward the facility.  
  
And then Happy talks — and apologizes.  
  
And his chest feels ten times less crushed by the time he's done, his hand moving from Peter's sleeve to his wrist.  
  
"I promise," he says, begrudgingly, "I'll answer every text you send me. Just try not to go overboard with it."

 

* * *

  
_... Eight..._  
  
"I am Groot!"   
  
"You're cheatin', stop lyin' to me! I can't believe this is happening. How're you doin' that flippy kick thing?!"  
  
"This woman is an extremely gifted warrior. I'd like to fight her sometime."  
  
"Drax, it's a character from Street Fighter, it's not based on anyone."  
  
Peter Quill came back as quickly as his feet would take him — or, uh, ship, anyway. And when he got back, he didn't get much more than 'the kid mentioned your girlfriend', which was already too much to handle for a time. He hadn't slept that night, memories dressed as nightmares keeping him jack-knifing awake and ready to battle, only for him to realize Thanos was dead. And so was Gamora.  
  
But the kid said her name. Pete's been walking around on his own. Pete's been reactive to pinching and prodding. He doesn't talk, doesn't even so much as notice your presence, but he must be out there somewhere breaking through. And if Gamora... if she's on the other side, too... It makes hope burst like fireworks in his chest and steals his breath away. He lost his mom, he lost his dad, he lost his own life at one point — but he might not have to lose the woman he loves.   
  
Or, he thinks sadly, he can at the very least say goodbye.  
  
But it's not just about Gamora. He has to remind himself of that, every time he looks at Peter — especially when he's with May, who so tenderly kisses his forehead or adjusts his shirt for him when he can't. It's not just about Gamora, and it can't just be about Gamora, because she'd kill him if he ever prioritized her so much over an innocent kid. So he lets Peter sit with them as Groot whoops Rocket's ass at Street Fighter, his headphones pressed over Lil' Pete's ears.  
  
The boy stares blankly at the screen as Chun-Li kicks the shit out of Ken, and _Ain't No Mountain High_   _Enough_ blares muffled in his ears. A great song, released in 1967 by Tammi Terrell and Marvin Gaye and peaking at number nineteen on the Billboard pop chart. Diana Ross did a version of it, but this one was his absolute favorite, no shade to her. He remembered it best from a Disney's DTV VHS in 1986 —  _Rock, Rhythm and Blues,_ specifically. Quill can't help but get lost in the memory of his mother popping movies on and looking at him with near-shining eyes.  
  
"I am Groot?" Groot asks, looking over and pulling him from his thoughts.  
  
"Yeah, yeah — I think this is helping him," Quill says with a slight smirk. " _Apparently_ the Spider-Man liked to frequent arcade games downtown. You know, I was pretty good at this game myself—"  
  
"Quill, how are you humming and talking at the same time?" Drax looks at him from where he's elbow-deep in a popcorn bucket. "Is that something humans can do?"  
  
"I'm not humming, what—? Dude, nobody's humming."  
  
"... I could have swore I heard something."

 

* * *

  
_... Seven..._  
  
` "Hello, Peter. It's Karen. Mr. Stark has re-calibrated my systems so that I can speak with you outside of your suit... I have heard that you are having medical issues that could be potentially remedied by having someone to talk to; I've always enjoyed talking with you, so I don't mind spending time going over old records and information regarding your life as Peter Parker. I'm always happy to do whatever is needed for your safety and well-being. You've always been good to me, so I will be more than happy to be good to you, too. I'll replay footage of your field trip from last year; you seemed so happy in it, I thought maybe it would help."`

 

* * *

  
_... Six..._  
  
"... It is for Ulysses that my heart bleeds, when I think of his sufferings in that lonely sea-girt island, far away, poor man, from all his friends. It is an island covered with forest, in the very middle of the sea, and a goddess lives there, daughter of the magician Atlas, who looks after the bottom of the ocean, and carries the great columns that keep heaven and earth asunder. This daughter of Atlas has got hold of poor unhappy Ulysses, and keeps trying by every kind of blandishment to make him forget his home, so that he is tired of life, and thinks of nothing but how he may once more see the smoke of his own chimneys..."  
  
Despite his brashness and oftentimes 'rowdy' demeanor, he does love a good story from time to time — The Odyssey was one of those earth tales he'd enjoyed brushing up on, but he's also branched out a bit and found himself humored by the works of many (even a Danielle Steele, which has... quite an interesting way with romance, if there's any word for it).   
  
Thor sits patiently with his feet placed up on the table, stationed beside Peter while the boy rests with his hands sitting against his knees. Bruce is giving a typical medical inspection that has become a common sight. As Thor lowers the epic, thumb marking the page, he asks with some measure of skepticism: "I don't suppose this is too heavy a read right now?"   
  
"For a normal teenager? Yes. For Peter Parker of Midtech Science? Maybe."  
  
"Stark had very little worth reading in the Avengers Tower, but perhaps he's changed his ways and gotten something a little more enjoyable in the library here. Ah — here we go, Parker! A story about  _The Beast from the East_. That sounds like a particularly gruesome creature, doesn't it? You should get a look at the ugly thing on the cover."  
  
Bruce smiles a little, head ducked as he monitor's Peter's blood pressure; just a night beforehand, it had been elevated, and Banner thought that perhaps Peter was becoming too aware of the brain scans and felt anxious, as young men do with their limited experience in medical rooms. Thor catches the little teasing grin on the doctor's face and smiles a little himself.  
  
"Are you thinking rude thoughts right now, Banner?"  
  
"Oh, no, no, wouldn't dream of it. What's it about?"

"Ah, let's see what the back of the book says... Ginger Wald and her identical twin brothers, Nat and Pat, are lost in the woods. No problem. After all, Ginger did go to that stupid nature camp. Still, there's something odd about this part of the woods. The grass is yellow. The bushes are purple. And the trees are like skyscrapers. Then, Ginger and her brothers meet the beasts. They're big blue furry creatures. And they want to play a game. The winners get to live. The losers get eaten." Thor looks up, pleased. "This sounds delightful!"  
  
The medical check-up only takes another fifteen minutes, but Banner sits in interest beside Parker as the god reads aloud for some time.

 

* * *

 

 _... Five..._  
  
Peter takes a tumble, during one of his walks, and Bucky is angry at himself for letting it happen in the first place. Maybe he'd let himself get too involved in the life of a wandering vegetable, but at this point it's too late to change anything. He's involved. It's a mission, one he can actually take that doesn't leave his hands stained with blood.  
  
... Until now, anyway.   
  
Now he's sitting with Peter on the floor of the hall, his flesh hand gripping the boy's chin as he methodically turns his head left and right, up and down. He massages the youthful jaw for any signs of broken bones, because he hit the floor pretty hard, and curses at the small split on his chin, dripping a little blood; he quickly uses his metal hand to catch it before it could completely ruin Peter's shirt. Red sinks into the joints of his fingers. The sight leaves him breathless for a moment, mouth dry. He's holding Peter's chin, and there's blood on his hand, and — he would never hurt the kid, he'd never hurt anyone innocent on purpose like that anymore, he's different, he's —  
  
Bucky breathes in, breathes out. He's not going to drown in his own body again. Not today.  
  
He stands Peter instead up and leads him to the room Steve had given him, settling the teenager in a rolling chair he had at his desk as he rakes through the nearby drawer for first aid. There's a perfectly fine medical room in the facility, but there's something comforting about having his own kit to work from; he can fix himself, he can be in control, and he can survive without fear of causing anymore pain than he has.  
  
"You need to be more careful," he says gruffly, "If you're gonna walk around the place, you need to at least know where steps are. C'mon."  
  
He dabs the split chin gently.  
  
Peter's face draws into a wince that doesn't reach his eyes, and Bucky freezes at it for a moment.  
  
_Jesus, he's really in there,_  he thinks. His touch is lighter after.  
  
Is this what Steve felt, when he kept finding Bucky, over and over?   
  
Did he also see Bucky in the man he became, suffocating among all the muck?  
  
"Don't tell Stark I let you fall down, or he'll kick me out," he tells the kid. "If he asks, tell him it's Sam's fault. That'll go over well."  
  
Is Peter also suffocating in his own body? Is he also just as confused and trapped? The thought leaves his blood cold. He thinks of all the excited children in the village back in Wakanda, calling out for the White Wolf with energetic voices. And then he thinks of an over-eager kid in red and blue spandex, giddy over the metal fist he had been effortlessly pushing back. Bucky looks at his false hand as it turns reflective in the lamp light, and observes Peter's blood there, smeared along his palm.  
  
"You okay?" Steve asks from behind, hobbling on his bad leg until he’s in the doorway.  
  
He used to ask so much more cautiously, like Bucky was a snake that could lash out. Now it's with a casualness that disarms him.  
  
Shaking his head, he smiles thinly back. "Just got another white boy to fix."  
  
Peter ends up with a Captain America themed band-aid on his chin.   
  
Bucky figures if he's gonna get killed by May, he can at least piss Tony Stark off before he goes.

 

* * *

  
_... Four..._  
  
Tony is stuck in China on business and May is sleeping, unaware that her kid had walked himself out and into the main lobby (strange, he usually stays asleep through the night...?). Rhodes figures he's not gonna sound any alarms and freak anyone out, and instead leads Peter into the lounge room, back towards the way-too-big television they've all been switching off using; it's kind of turned into a hub when everyone's dead tired and wants a moment's peace. Clint's already in there face-timing his wife as she readies for bed, and Rhodes almost apologizes with the promise to come back later — but Barton ushers them in, and somehow, some way, the three of them are kicking back and watching scrolling  _Star Wars_  text.  
  
Rhodes had met Peter enough times to be well-aware of the kid's likes and dislikes. You only had to mention movies around him before he got to chattering about midnight screenings, or the awesome action figures he's saved in his room, or the factoids he knows about the behind the scenes stuff going on. Lord knows he used his endless Star Wars adoration to knock Scott Lang flat on his ass in Germany.   
  
He doesn't notice for a moment, the lingering figure in the doorway. But Clint does.  
  
"Hey, you gonna come watch with us?"  
  
Wanda doesn't move, bathed in the glow of the television. Her hands are fidgeting in front of her, like her very existence in the room is sapping away any chance of serenity. Rhodes doesn't know Wanda as well as he'd like, but he knows she's had some big damn hits lately — and that she had seen their work with Peter as fruitless and pointless and unfair to the boy, up until the day he spoke. Ever since then, she's been hovering wordlessly. Unsure. Maybe guilty.   
  
"We've got plenty of room for one more," he adds.   
  
"I haven't been the best company," she says to the floor.  
  
"And you think Peter here is any better?" Clint says, nudging the boy's arm. "At least you talk. No offense, kid."  
  
"I said he may be better off dead." She walks closer, and her eyes are soft. She's a good kid, Rhodes knows. She is, and it’s clear her heart has been in the right place when it came to respecting the likes of Peter Parker.  
  
She's just... lost a lot.  
  
"... If it's an apology you wanna offer," he tells her, "I don't think Peter would be expecting one."  
  
Peter's not that kind of person.  
  
He's a good kid, too.  
  
"Look," Clint says softly, "You've been holed up enough, haven't you? I know what you're afraid of, but you  _have_ to push through it."  
  
Rhodes wonders what else Clint whispers to Wanda, when he crosses the room and wraps his arms around her — but whatever it is, it's a secret between them, something that leaves her leaning into him for support, for keeping what must be silent tears hidden. It's not something he needs to be privy to, and  as she wipes at her face and nods, Rhodes tries to watch the screen like someone with years of sorrows isn't coming apart a few feet away from him. He can hear her journey closer and sit quietly on the soft cushions beside Peter, not saying anything. For a moment.  
  
"Who hurt his chin?" she asks suddenly, concerned.  
  
"Sam apparently let him fall over," Clint huffs, as she clicks her tongue in disapproval.  
  
They all end up asleep halfway through  _Return of the Jedi_. Well, almost all of them, anyway; when Rhodes startles awake after nodding off, he finds Wanda leaning on Clint and Peter still staring at the screen, just as the second movie's credits begin to roll. Maybe it's just him, but under the glow of stars and swelling music, he looks... content.

 

* * *

  
_... Three..._  
  
Natasha is not one for being delicate. She's mastered the art of faking kind hands, so it's hard for her to tell if her gentle ways with Peter are natural or just a product of her up-bringing. She likes to think not, though — she likes to think she might have a shot at not being a total monster. Pepper and May are out tonight, the usual guardians at this hour, because Pepper had figured the aunt needed some time out to unwind, maybe have a few drinks; Natasha's pretty sure she's not wrong. It's times like these she wonders if she dodged a bullet, having a family to love before the Avengers. And it's unfair to think, because May is lucky to have Peter, and Peter is lucky to have her.  
  
She finds the boy at one in the morning out of his bed, staring out the large window that shows off the quinjet's landing pad. He's in sweats and his hair is a curly mess, and his hands are twisted up in his shirt. He looks younger then, brow furrowed in concern, belly exposed to reveal a too-flat stomach and the small button where food is fed through a tube. She looks out the window with him, wondering what reason he must have to venture out like this tonight. Maybe there really is no reason at all to his madness; maybe he just moves, the fog in his head too thick to see through. She disentangles his fingers from his shirt (Ah!, it says, in a periodic table box, and under it: the element of surprise) and carefully leads him back towards the room he'd been staying in.  
  
Stark's already got it all decked out in things he'd enjoy, go figure. Actually, she thinks maybe it's been decorated this way for a while now. If she didn't know any better, she'd say Peter even stayed in it relatively often, like maybe he visited the facility on the weekends. She wonders just how much she's missed, that someone else had snaked their way into Iron Man's iron-clad heart. Usually he's so much more cautious about these sorts of things. She's the same way.  
  
"Hello," someone says stiffly. She turns to find Mantis, looking just as out of place in her over-sized T-shirt and flamingo-patterned shorts.  
  
"Hey there," Natasha says, not without friendliness. Sometimes the Guardians got on her nerves and then some, but Mantis had always been the most polite out of the bunch — if not a little oblivious and naive. Natasha couldn't remember the last time she herself had been that innocent, honestly. Probably never. "You can't sleep either?"  
  
"Oh, no, I just slept in, so I am not tired. Is Little Pete okay?"  
  
"He's just fine. Mostly wandering; he might be a little restless. I don't think he's slept much lately."   
  
Mantis bites her fingernails, thoughtful for a moment as she watches Peter linger there. "... If you would like, I could help him sleep."  
  
"... That'd be really nice. Thanks."   
  
They walk on either side of Peter, the windows basking them in a moonlight glow that offers a sense of peace. The room isn’t too far, and they usher him in with guiding fingertips against his back. At Peter's bedside, Natasha gently presses on his chest until he obeys her wordless order, leaning down into his pillow and staring with grey-rimmed eyes at the ceiling. Mantis’ hands move to carefully rest on Peter's temples. Her antenna glow like a nightlight in the darkness, casting long shadows and fluorescent shades of green on the movie posters along the walls.   
  
"Sleep," she says, and Peter's eyes slip blissfully shut.  
  
Natasha is not one for being delicate, but as she pulls the covers carefully up to Peter's chin, she thinks that her kind hands feel pretty natural.

* * *

  
_... Two..._  
  
The fireworks burst in the sky and rain colors through the expansive darkness over New York. Some of the Avengers aren't exactly good at dealing with them — Bucky, Steve, and Sam are having their own little getaway for the New Year's Eve shindig, and that's fine with Tony, because he doesn't want to worry about Barnes going understandably nutso at the rounds of gunpowder in the sky. If Tony's honest, the sounds unsettle him a little, too, if he's not looking right at the sparkling lights. Peter, though, Peter loved spending the night and watching the show the year following Germany. It'd been a flippant kind of thing, inviting the boy over for New Years before; there's really no better view than on the balcony of the Avengers facility, and he just... liked the kid.   
  
Peter had been so thrilled and enraptured by the popping colors, then.   
  
It hurts Tony to see him have no reaction at all, this night.  
  
"When did you get so under my skin, kid?" he asks him, watching the bursting show beyond the facility. They sit huddled with a thick warm blanket around their shoulders, courtesy of Pepper Potts — who is always still looking out for him — and Tony can't help but wonder aloud how he had let his guard down so easily. He and Peter had been around each other two years before the snap. Two years, that couldn't have been that long to feel this swelling in his heart, right? And yet Morgan had taught him so quickly, just how fast you can love someone. God, holidays made him a sap. A big, stupid sap with emotions he would have preferred devolved into defensive snark.  
  
That's just not in him, right now.   
  
He wraps an arm around Peter's head, pulling him close. They rest their temples against one another's as reds and blues and purples bleed over every surface, twinkling back into midnight. Everyone inside is bustling around, tipsy and warm, but none of them dare intrude on the quiet world Peter and Tony have built around them. He appreciates it, because if they saw his face now, weary and strained, he wouldn't be able to joke himself out of a wet paper bag. He wants to see the light at the end of the tunnel. He wants to know it's there, that it's Peter's soul waiting, warm and full and not lost in some void somewhere.  
  
This has been a hell of a long mission. Tony closes his eyes, listening to Peter's evened breathing.  
  
"I should've found a more grating, miserable lump for an intern. Then I could've just kicked them to the curb and went about with my day. You know, you're the reason I'm married, right? If you'd just been a little more smug and irrational, you would've joined the Avengers four years ago, and I wouldn't have proposed in there. I mean, I would have sooner or later, but..."  
  
He sighs.   
  
"Can you hear me, Pete? Spider-Man?"  
  
_Thoom, krakow, krakow_  — the sounds of bursting light, shooting into the air. It fades all over again.  _Thoom, krakow, krakow._  
  
It's a real marvel. He hopes Peter can see it. Maybe even follow it back.

The sounds of a promising future. The  _light_. 

 

* * *

  
  
_... One..._

 

  
  
  
Tony Stark wakes up to the stifling stench of smoke.

  
  
  
  
**_Fire._ **


	13. Chapter 13

The more Peter worked on it, the more he found that he could 'slip through the cracks' — or something like that. He wasn't really sure how to explain it; at first it was all just a heavy darkness that encompassed him when he reached out to his living form. It had always kind of hurt, like a toothache all over his body, but Gamora was adamant that he had to push through it. And he  _knew_ he had to as well, if he wanted to find his way back to May and the others. He'd just wished he could  _see_ , instead of relying on the nearly nonexistent sensation of touch, or the sounds that ended up muffled in his ears. Wherever he was physically, he always heard people left and right, like maybe it was a community of some kind; he knew Mr. Stark was around, and he knew Aunt May was lingering close. Everyone else slowly became more and more familiar as he forced himself through the pain and strained to listen: Dr. Banner, Miss Potts, Happy...   
  
He excitedly reported to Gamora what he realized: he was back home, at the  _Avengers_ facility. He knew the bed he was being led to every night, and when his head had hit the pillow, the texture told him it was _his_ room. Not his room at home, but the one he spent time in on the weekends sometimes, when Mr. Stark had let him wander around the lab and contribute to his suit's features and design.  
  
"I swear, I heard Thor. I heard freaking _Thor_ ," Peter told Gamora excitedly, his eyes lighting up. Gamora huffed and ignored his fanboy-ish charm to check him over, because every time he spent a lengthy meditation focusing on his body, he would come back pale and shaking, the effort clearly taking a strain on him spiritually. He felt like crap, _yeah_ , but for every new discovery he pieced together, he felt more and more prepared to dive back into it. It eventually came to a point where he was only _legally_ blind (which was a step forward, at least) — colors came back to him, swirling and impossible to suss out. He could at least tell which wiggly shapes were actually people, because they moved and gestured and approached him.

It was like being stuck in a crystal ball full of foggy shades of reality? Like, he expected someone to just magically appear like a prophecy in the middle of one.

And someone kinda _did_ , during one of the trips back into his own head.  
  
He had been sitting on what was definitely the lounge couch in the headquarters, struggling to make out the many, many voices bouncing off the walls around all around him, when he at last smelled the distinct scent of _Taco Bell_. It made his stomach twist hungrily, and for a moment he wanted nothing more than to give up for the day and return to Gamora, empty-handed but feeling a little less — pardon his french —  _shitty_. As he considered abandoning the unfair wafting of cheap burritos and tacos, though, someone spoke to him:  
  
"You're not gonna eat anything? Hey, you should go hang out with the others."  
  
He had been surprised at how _clear_ the voice had been. It was definitely unfamiliar, that of a young girl. Trying his damnedest to control his body, his head only twitched and moved a few inches to the side, but he could see the brown curls of a pre-teen who was smiling and trying to be pleasant. He had no clue who she was, but it didn't matter — he tethered to her voice, forcing himself to endure and keep staying in the present. He tried to reply, he honestly did, but his jaw felt like it was sealed shut with wiring.   
  
_I'd love to eat something. Just stuff an enchirito in my face and see if I suck it down my windpipe or not?_  
  
"Don't talk much, huh? I understand that. My name's Cassie — Cassie Lang. My dad's a super cool Avenger. Ant-Man. You ever heard of him?"  
  
_Holy crap, yeah, yeah! I totally do know him; I kinda beat him up once. Really sorry about that._  
  
"Anywho, it's fine if you don't want to say anything. I didn't talk for a long time, either. I mean, after everyone..." He could see her hands crystal clear, motioning dramatically as she carried on. "After the really bad day nobody likes to talk about, anyway. I lost my mom and my stepdad... and a lot of other people, too. Everyone did. I took it pretty bad, though... I don't think I said much for a whole year, I was so messed up..." Peter felt a pang in his heart. It had been horrible to die, but he didn't want to ever imagine being a survivor. He didn't want to think of going home and finding anyone he loved turned to dust — black marks on furniture, or trickles of powder in the air.

Floating there in the expanse, he could feel his sympathy pulse through him like veins for this kid.  _I'm really sorry, Cassie. That sounds awful. I wish I could've done something for you._

"I'm fine now, though. I got therapy. It's not as bad as they show you on TV shows, you know? Usually it never, ever works on TV. But it did for me, so that's pretty cool. Hey, are you thirsty? You keep swallowing like you're thirsty." She peered closer at him, close enough now that he could see her face as clearly as he could see Gamora's, back in their little world. Her eyes were wide and round and full of kindness.   
  
And somehow, he could feel his face enough to hoarsely speak: " _Thirsty_."  
  
It was the hardest thing he'd ever done, chipping away at his own body, and it left him utterly exhausted... but if there's anything he had learned in his efforts, it had been to play through the pain. Cassie looked satisfied as her face disappeared from the clutches of clarity again, turning into squiggly colors and rounded shapes. "Oh, cool! Maybe I can get my dad or your mom to get you something. Can you have some tea? Tea's pretty good, and it's super easy to make. I could make it with my eyes closed."  
  
"Yyyes," he replied, unable to move his head — unable to sound like a normal freaking person. "Gamora..."  
  
What a pain.   
  
A literal pain.   
  
His body felt like it was on fire.  
  
"Peter, you should stop," Gamora said firmly, on the other side. "You're pushing too hard.  _Peter_." He couldn't see her, but the hand on his shoulder, he realized, was her trying to usher him back. The colorful world around him — and Cassie with it — began to dim further and further, as he drifted back deeper and deeper into the soul realm.  
  
Cassie asked, "What'd you say? What's a Gamora?"  
  
He forced himself to speak against a throat that wanted to close up. "Gamora would like it. The — the, the tea."  
  
"Peter, what're you talking about?" Gamora asked.

Not Cassie. Cassie was gone; everything was dark again.

_Gamora...?_

"... Gamora... you'd like some tea, too..."  
  
"You're speaking nonsense...!" A hand swatted him on the cheek at last and he startled back awake, sitting on the grassy knoll of his and Gamora's world. His face throbbed a little where she had given him a slap, and her shoulders sagged with relief as he touched the tender spot with a hand. She sighed, "That's  _enough_ for today."  
  
She was right; his body felt like it had ran a marathon, muscles sore and too taut to move much. He laid back in the grass and tried to relax himself — he supposed it wasn't really physical pain, because his body back in reality didn't hurt. Maybe it was more a reflection of his soul being under duress. Maybe? He wished he knew how the hell all this worked. But most importantly...   
  
"Gamora?"  
  
"What is it."  
  
"I think I actually  _talked_ to someone."

* * *

  
It begged repeating: time was impossible to track in this place. But he was pretty sure days had been slipping off the calendar since the first time he'd felt May hug him tightly in that hallway, what felt like forever ago. The whole thing felt like an ' _against the clock'_   sensation in his bones, like if he didn't figure all this out fast enough he'd wake up and be an old man. Or _something_ severe and dramatic. Gamora just rolled her eyes at that, but it was an entirely logical fear!

The natural thing to do was dive right back into his body when he woke up, in any attempt to tether himself to reality. It almost felt like being a ghost, possessing his senses temporarily to remember what it felt like to live. 

  
Only it hurt a lot. But the pull was stronger. It was _definitely_ stronger.  
  
And when he heard Ned's voice break through the mists in his head one day, it was like Christmas. He felt his friend's warm hand on his, ushering him down a hallway of drab colors that felt too familiar; god, it was good to hear that voice again. It felt like it had been forever. It felt like he had lost him  _forever_. The prickly stabbing along his arm was worth it, when he forced his hand to grip Ned's back. _I'm here, Ned,_  he thought, _I'm still in here. Don't think I'm quitting anytime soon._  
  
The colors. The colors were coming to life. He realized with some awe that he was standing in their apartment: the Parker Residence, in all of its beat-up, colorful glory. The shapes were difficult to make out — like he was a newborn trying to piece together the world through near-sighted eyes — but he could tell his aunt's goofy novelty lamp from anywhere. He could see her filing cabinets, no doubt filled to the brim. He could smell her favorite little plug-in scent machine... thingy. And later, his stomach gurgled at the sweet, sweet odor of his favorite meal that was clearly baking in the oven. God, he wished he could use this stupid mouth and shovel food into it. That was on a very intensive list of things he wished he could do. He sat there, almost petulantly, unknown to the other two in the room. _Unfair_.

Meanwhile, Ned's voice was like its own radio station, drifting endlessly from hit to hit.   
  
It was the longest he had been able to stay in reality.  
  
As he faced Ned in the bathroom, watching him meticulously fix Peter's bangs, he felt a wave of warmth that almost overshadowed the aches and pangs of staying there too long. His friend was here. His aunt was here. They were both alive and sounded so kind and warm, the ones who inspired him to try and be just as kind and warm, too. He felt _stronger_ — he felt so strong, he could do anything. He could move a whole rooftop, or throw a whole diesel truck, or whip a whole bridge like a rug (he'd never, of course, but he was totally strong enough to). He could — he could do anything —  
  
He walked. He moved his body with that wave of good will and walked. The world around him was a Pollock painting, but he could remember the layout of their little humble home. He counted his heavy footfalls, every step a victory he had not yet known. By the time he got to his room, he was grinning like a madman; behind him, he could hear Ned and May waiting and staring at the back of his mussed head with anticipation.  
  
But you know what?  
  
He was tired as freaking heck.  
  
It was instinctive, to crawl into bed and let the overwhelming weariness take him over.  
  
_Nap time,_ he thought,  _yup, yup, existing takes too much effort, time for oblivion. I walked a few feet, I deserve this. Do not disturb._  
  
When he woke back up in the soul world, he thought he may have heard ridiculous laughter in the distance.

* * *

  
He got stronger.

He felt more.

He heard things easier. 

You know how a baby gets mad crazy when it learns how to walk?  
  
That was him. He had mastered the art of wandering aimlessly through the Avenger's facility, and though he was practically a prisoner in his own body, he could at least throw his weight around. Case in point: some brave soul took his favorite sitting spot in the kitchen. That just wouldn't do — Operation People Mover in progress. He talked to Gamora about it in length, unable to quell his newfound excitement over mobility in general. "Can you believe the nerve of some people, taking my favorite stool? That stool's practically my stoop. I'm not giving up my stoop for anybody. I deserve it, 'cus I'm a weird zombie who eats through a toothpaste tube in my gut."  
  
"You're rambling again." Gamora said. But she looked pleased, anyway.  
  
"Oh, yeah? I guess I'm just — I'm feeling _alive_ again, for the first time in a bajillion weeks—"  
  
He hesitated, smile fading. Gamora was sitting here, looking wistful about him blabbering on and on about all the new updates in his quest to go home... but there was nothing for her to return to, because she was dead. The thought had struck him so suddenly, it left a lump in his throat and a tongue too swollen with regret to move. When she noticed his sad expression, she rolled her eyes and flicked a clump of earth at him. "Don't start the sad stare. I can't stand the dejected dog look."  
  
"I just — It feels like I'm rubbing this all in. I shouldn't be so loud about it."  
  
She looked at him sharply. "... What are you doing right now, Peter?"  
  
"Um... talking with you?"  
  
"No, no. In the real world. Tell me what's happening."  
  
After a beat of hesitation, he focused on that very world — didn't even have to close his eyes to see and feel anymore, it became such a second nature. The only difference was the pin-cushion pain in his back and the throbbing ache in his bones, something he'd grown to ignore as he adapted. He smiled a little and breathed in deeply. "I'm coming back from a walk with Miss Potts and Pepperoni." (- _and isn't that the cutest nickname for a Stark baby? That's freaking cute, Mr. Stark-_ ) "Groot was _trying_ to talk to Happy, which is a pretty funny thought. Everything kinda fades in and out a little, um... I think something about... video games?"  
  
Gamora smiled. "Focus again. Where are you going?"  
  
"To play games," he said, grinning. "I _loved_ this game — Street Fighter was so cool back when I was little, because I never thought I'd get to be as tough as anyone in it. Groot really, _really_ likes it, I think." And man, Gamora seemed so _happy_ to hear about the Guardians — ... _ah_. His expression relaxed a little at the thought, and his hand gently pressed over his heart to fidget as he considered what to say next. "Umm. Rocket and Drax are there, too. I smell popcorn... Mr. Quill's letting me borrow his headphones again."  
  
Gamora laid her head on the grass, and Peter joined her on his stomach. He talked about everything he could gleam, even if it went to static sometimes. He couldn't really tell her about what everyone was _saying_ thanks to the old music bouncing around in his head, though. Gamora's eyes grew glossy regardless before she closed them, and not for the first time, he wanted to hug his friend. But he also knew that wasn't what she wanted, right then. She said, "Will you hum the songs to me?"  
  
Peter blushed — his singing was pretty bad, and it felt weirdly vulnerable — but soon he was humming every song he could recognize.  
  
In his own way, he thought maybe he was making Gamora feel alive again, too.  
  
He didn't feel quite as guilty when he described Star Wars movie night in as much detail as he could, in the days that had followed.

* * *

  
  
He looked out a window, but there was only darkness beyond it.

He couldn't feel anything. 

He couldn't even feel the hem of his shirt, bunched up in his fingers.

His eyes felt too full and too raw.

Some days were too much, too fast.  
  
_Tired, I'm so tired, I'm so, so tired,_  he thought. He was roaming, listless. It was all just shapes. It was all so blurry. It ached in his bones. _I'm so tired, I feel trapped, I feel like I can't — I can't do this. I can't do this. Help me, Mr. Stark. I can't come back. I can't do this, I can't think, but I feel so much, too much. My skin hurts. Everything —_  
  
He walked.   
  
Natasha pressed him to his bed. He couldn't remember where she'd come from. He didn't remember her footsteps seeking him out.  
  
_You don't understand, Miss Romanoff... I can't sleep. I can't eat, I can't think, I can' see — I can't close my eyes. I need help. I need out._  
  
"Sleep," he heard Mantis say kindly beside the two of them. Then he felt her slightly cooled hands on his face before he melted away into the dark.

When he woke up in the fields, it was with Gamora's arm curled protectively over their huddled forms while she slept. He couldn't remember passing out. How long had he been trapped on the other side? Blinking lazily, he nuzzled himself closer to the warmth of Gamora's soul.

"I'm sorry I make you worry," he murmured, trying not to wake her.  
  
She only tightened her grip around him.

* * *

  
"Can you hear me, Pete? Spider-Man?" Tony asked, a sliver of desperation in his voice.  
  
Fireworks were bursting in the sky, and Peter could see each one of them if he focused hard enough. Not the _crispness_ of their lights, but their blurry hues and shades, which temporarily stained the state skyline that he loved with new paints. Peter sat nearly temple to temple with his mentor — and if you had told him four years ago Tony Stark would be nestled under a blanket with him watching New Years fireworks, Peter would have thought you were absolutely insane in the membrane. If you told the eight-year-old boy wearing the Iron Man mask that he would someday fight alongside one of his heroes, he'd be stunned. If you told a mourning Peter Parker from freshman year that he would have another man in his life who would look out for him when he was at his most lost, he'd probably scream and throw something at you and wish he had taken that bullet meant for Ben.  
  
But here he was. He had died, yeah. He'd fought against some of the most evil beings in the world, and he had experienced terrible pains. But he would not trade it away for anything — he would never trade away that bite on his hand, not if it meant losing all the things he'd seen and done as Spider-Man (the people he'd saved, the lives he looked into for a fleeting moment), and especially if it meant never knowing people like Happy or Pepper or Tony.  
  
His mouth refused to work, which was the most frustrating thing most of the time.  
  
He wished he could say something. Anything. Something like:  
  
_I can hear you, Mr. Stark. I'm still here._  
  
_Don't give up on me just yet._

* * *

  
  
Peter is telling Gamora the meaning behind the math joke on his shirt, when the stifling scent of smoke floods his nostrils and throat.   
  
He stands slowly, his voice trailing away, and she quickly joins him.  
  
"What's wrong?"  
  
"I — do you smell that?" He already knows she probably can't — there's a distant whirring, and then a  _pop-pop-pop_  that he realizes are tiny, distant  _explosions_. Detaching himself from the soul world and anchoring into himself where he'd been sitting in bed, he walks out of his room back on Earth, his bare feet pattering along smooth metallic flooring. May isn't here tonight; she's sleeping soundly at the apartment because she's got a meeting she can't miss — she's unaware and safe. Peter is happy to know that much, because none of this sounds or looks good to his blurry, spattered vision. FRIDAY sounds off alarms, but he can't make out what she's saying, strain as he might.   
  
However, he can definitely hear the blurry figure that rushes toward him, basked in her own red light and screaming for him to move —  _Wanda?_  
  
The explosion rocks the floor under his feet, this time. Wanda flies from his sight, or maybe he flies from hers, or maybe she's the one who moved him — but he hits the surviving floor hard where he's catapulted, and can't get himself back up, not with what little control he has over his body. Debris stinks in his nose. He can't even think over the hiss of broken pipes from across the facility. Voices are too distant, too muddled. _What's happening?_ He wants to call out to someone,  _ask_ , but his mouth won't work; it  _never_ works when he wants it to, not even to scream out for help. His already delicate and dialed-up powers are so overwhelmed, he's kicked back near instantly to Gamora and their orange oasis, left gasping in a cold sweat in her hands. His spider senses are screaming so loudly that he almost wants to cry.

Instead he grips Gamora's shoulders and looks at her in wide-eyed panic.

"Something's wrong—" he croaks. "Something's attacking us."  
  
He looks around wildly at the place he'd called home with Gamora and is stunned by the ash floating down through the tinted sky. The smell of smoke is stronger now, all-consuming and fogging up the sun above them. Something is pressing into his back — it feels like a  _foot_ , like a heavy foot that is pinning him. Stepping on the spider. It's too big to be a human foot. His enhanced ribs are creaking beneath it, but he can't go back, he can't handle so much at once—   
  
"What's attacking?!  _Who's_ attacking?! Peter, are the Guardians still there? Who's looking after you?!"  
  
He can't help but worry about the woman who had flown from his sight, moments before he lost control of his body.  _God, is Wanda okay? Did he fall, or did she?_  

"I don't know. I don't know, I can't  _see_ —" A white hot pain, too real to be phantom. He screams out hoarsely and crumples. Something's _in_ his shoulder. Something's burrowing  _through_ his shoulder, like a snake burrowing through dirt. He feels it in full and can't stop gasping for air that doesn't seem to return to his lungs. Gamora clings to him, tries to keep him upright, and is mortified by the blossoming rose-red stain on his T-shirt.   
  
"My shoulder," he coughs. "My shoulder, it  _hurts_. Oh, shit, Gamora, it hurts— what's happening?"  
  
_I don't know what's going on —_  
  
The boot-shaped pressure on his back, it feels like it's gonna  _crush_ him.  
  
_It hurts, it hurts, it hurts...!_  
_  
Mr. Stark, somebody, help me; I'm stuck, I'm stuck and I can't move — I can't move—_


	14. Chapter 14

There's always something else that can happen, after the dust settles. Tony knows it all too well.  
  
There'll always be a next time, a new attack, some other threat to stop.  
  
Boy, does he hate being right about it, too.  
  
He wastes no time, after the first explosion jars him awake — he sends Pepper and Morgan to the closet, because that just so happens to be where he kept the secret compartment that would lead them into the belly of the compound. By the time Morgan is secure in Pepper's arms, she's howling in panic at the flashing alarms and thunderous collision of rock and metal in the distance. Tony presses a hand to her cheek and says, "It's okay, kiddo, dad's got you covered, just stick with mom," before pressing a kiss to Pepper's lips (you never know if it'll be the last, you just never know, fuck). "Stay down there, Pep, you hear me? Don't come out, not for anything."  
  
"I love you, you idiot," she says, and vanishes along with Happy. If there's anyone he trusted to put Pepper and Morgan's lives above all else, it'd be Hap, and they exchange knowing glances as Tony rushes out into the thick of things. None of it makes any sense — FRIDAY is programmed to alert them to foreign dangers far before the danger actually strikes, so what happened here? Why did his systems kick into gear so late? He thinks it's more than possible that it's technology  _he's_  unfamiliar with — _alien tech_. Gritting his teeth, the Iron Man suit's nano-technology stretches across his body like living clay, molding to his person perfectly.   
  
The timing of the attack left him with less options than he would have liked; some of their hardest hitters are  _out to lunch,_ so to speak: Scott Lang is halfway across New York City; Clint is back home with his family; the Guardians are still out there somewhere in the reaches of space, delivering the Space Stone to a secure new home where (hopefully) nobody like Thanos could get their ugly mitts on it; Thor was in Wakanda, helping repair the foundation of hope for his people; Spider-Man is trapped in his own body —  
  
(He has to get to Peter, he has to get him to the closet and start him moving somewhere _defended_ — It's not safe, he's gonna get himself fucking killed—)  
  
He already sees the flash of War Machine as Rhodes speeds through the air outside, and Tony instantly feels a stab of panic at the thought of his friend being out there, seemingly on his own. Another violent hit rocks the facility — across the lawn, this time, with the distant echo of Hulk's roar just audible over the blast. Tony propels forward through the corridor and realizes with coiling horror that the rest of the floor is in ruin, Wanda's limp figure slumped among glass fragments where the large windows used to be. A quick scan tells him she's alive — head injury, though, and more than likely something that will not only take her out of the battle until she can snap out of it. And make her a target for whoever is launching their strike.

Natasha's room had been completely wiped out, and he only hopes she'd gotten the memo from the initial shock wave and flipped her way out of there with Bucky and Sam and Steve.  
  
"To— you — ea— me?" he hears Rhodes in his ear, the choppy and illegible message drawing a wince from him.  
  
_So they botched our comms, too._  
  
Flying out from around the corner, a huge and lumbering figure comes into view through the debris and dust-fogged lounge area, which has been nearly destroyed in one of the first blasts; the bastard reminds him instantly of that bozo they'd all duked it out with in the park years ago, and it doesn't take Tony long to pinpoint why the armor and helmet and undeniable aesthetic was so familiar: this is one of Thanos' so-called children, the  _Black Order_. Apparently there was more left, like little picnic ants all over your fucking food. The thought makes his stomach roil and his anger spike, teeth gritted. He figures that alone would be enough to spur forward his outrage — until he realizes the alien had his foot on a familiar kid from Queens and was in the middle of some interrogation speech Tony couldn't be damned to care about.  
  
Peter is on his stomach with the bastard's boot against the buttons of his spine, as his arms and legs weakly wriggle. And there is a fucking  _spear_ wedged into one of his shoulders, one that was being twisted deeper for the pleasure of it.  
  
Tony's vision goes red.   
  
As the pointed weapon is pulled from the boy's trembling figure, Iron Man pulses through the air like lightning, a scream ripping out of him just before he slams into the over-sized alien motherfucker; he relishes the way his enemy's ribs smash into pieces under his bullet-like armor, or how there's not even room for a sound of pain as discolored blood sprays from the Black Order soldier's mouth and onto his helmet. The disposable monster is dead before he even hits the grassy knoll outside, and Tony doesn't feel an ounce of concern at the extra kick he delivers to the corpse, just for his own gluttonous need for revenge on Pete's behalf.   
  
_Pete_. Oh god. Oh god, he's stabbed back there —   
  
He turns and starts his panicked flight back towards the half-ruined facility, tunnel vision sweeping him. He sees Peter prone among the bits and pieces of what used to be a couch and table, with blood pooling near his head, and that's all he digests before a lasso whips around his ankle like a coiling snake and rips him back outside into the shitshow. " _FRIDAY_ , we need radio devices back up, right fucking now! I gotta' know where everyone's at—!"  
  
( _Peter, I gotta get back to Peter, he needs to go with Pepper and Morgan, he needs to get outta here right now, goddammit—!_ )  
  
"I'm working on it — si — It seems they are using pulses of energy — an unknown origin to delay emergency systems and — isable — our comm —" It's not the best news, and FRIDAY is clearly having her own problems to deal with, but he's at least thinking it can be reversed with enough time; as much as he doesn't want to charge forward and therefore away from Peter, he also knows that he has to keep soldiers at bay _from_ the kid, and pinpoint where those pulses are coming from to destroy them outright. He aims and fires, tearing through the smaller ships like rice paper with his high-density lasers.   
  
"You guys don't learn a goddamn thing, do you?! It's like an old dog with one trick," he bites.   
  
He jerks his vision towards the horizon, where Falcon is ducking and weaving and trying not to get sucked up into the whirring engines of the mother ship. Radios are down, but they're blissfully close enough to yell like insane people at each other. "Tony, I think they're here for the—"  
  
"—three stones still left on Earth?! Yeah, no shit!"  
  
A large chunk of debris is flung in Sam's direction from seemingly nowhere, clipping his wing and almost sending him into a tailspin; he adjusts and adapts, arching upward back into the sky as a familiar face graces Tony's presence ahead of them — the figure who had decided to throw said debris, if Tony had to guess. The moment the light of the moon hits the guy's ugly face, everything clicks into place.  
  
Ebony Maw, the noseless wonder, smiles as all pieces of villainous shit do.  
  
"It's been far too long, hasn't it? Now — if you don't mind, we'll be taking those stones."

 

* * *

  
  
After Gamora met Peter Quill and her fellow Guardians, she thought she would someday die by their side; such a concept brought her a confusing but  _profound_ comfort, and most would think the thought a horrible and morbid thing. But for someone like her — someone whose life had been slicked with blood and shined sharp and deadly and loveless — it was one of the most wonderful realizations she'd had in her turbulent life. So imagine her heartache, when she was forced to die, not alone, but in the company of the man who had tormented her most all her life. It would have been easier if he hated her; knowing that he did truly love her only made his actions all the more painful, all the more terrifying. She wanted to die with her _family_ — not with the cheap facsimile that called himself her father, against her very will.  
  
She had been freed of him, though, in the end. Dead or alive, Thanos was ripped from her life at last, and she at least had that much.  
  
And she had Peter Parker, to stave away the isolation.  
  
A foolish, ridiculous boy, someone who pulled his punches against bullies out of obligation to use his powers for good. Someone who never seemed to have a shortage of 'sorrys' in his pocket, or shit-eating grins hidden up his sleeves. Someone who reminded her of her own Peter in their many ways of shining proudly — with energy, life, kindness, love. She had been nothing like him, when she was his age. She had been vicious, trained to kill with no regard for life, taught for too long that you should never care about those around you, because they would become your greatest enemy sooner or later.   
  
And here young Peter was, almost stupidly innocent, his eyes twinkling with concern since the start.   
  
They've been here in this place, they've surmised, for at _least_ two years. Two years together and then some, and with no one else to lean on, she had to admit to herself at some point that she loved this young man like family she'd been forced to part with — and so when he cries out in pain and falls to his knees, she grips his arms and keeps him from crashing down to the hillside with fear in her eyes. Her guts knot while panic ripples through her soul in a great heaving rush. _Blood_ — there is blood pouring through his shirt, and she recalls instantly the day he had hurt his chin in the real world.  
  
( _"Bucky told everyone Sam let me fall over," Peter said with a laugh as she pinched his jaw in her hands, so that she could inspect the cut on his face with some disapproval. "When I get back, I should probably tell everyone Sam Wilson is an innocent man, you think?"_ )  
  
Gamora's face pales.   
  
He's being impaled in the real world, she realizes with a pounding heart. He's being stabbed on _Earth_ , and there's nothing she can do about it here. And there's nothing _he_ can do about it here, not while he's trapped in this world and outside of his own body. She swipes her hand across his face, trying to get him to focus as he pours sweat and shakes under her fingertips. "Peter! Peter, look at me. Look at me."  
  
"Gh— I'm okay," he whimpers, his fingernails pinching into her forearms. "I'mokayI'mokayI'mokay—"  
  
( _"I'm sorry I make you worry," he whispered, and she hugged him more fiercely into her chest. He was a foolish boy, if he honestly thought it bothered her at all, to have someone she could worry about — someone tangible, someone who didn't leave her all alone in this place with her lonely thoughts and trepidation. She runs her hands through his curling locks, wild under her fingers—_ )  
  
—and keeps stroking his head with steely determination in her eyes. "No you're not. You're not okay, and you need to go.  _Now_."  
  
His own eyes widen tiredly, the blanched face looking up at her in disbelief. "Wh... What?"  
  
"I said you need to go. Peter, this is your chance. This — This is probably the strongest link you could have between your soul and body."  
  
"I can't," he pants, struggling to breathe through what must be bruised ribs and a lancing pain through torn flesh.   
  
"You  _can_."  
  
"I said I fucking  _can't_!" he yells, the angriest she's heard him, frustrated tears lining his gaze. "I can't— I'm not strong enough to do it! It's  _too much_ —"  
  
"Look into my eyes.  _Look here_." She jerks his chin towards him as she had before, the gesture so instantly disarming that he looks at her now with round-eyed desperation. This boy has done too much for her here in this strange place, for her to let him fall apart and die before her very eyes. If there was anything she could do for him, it was to send him home. Send him back to people who loved him, who cared about him, people like Stark and his aunt, his friend. She smooths his hair back, a thin smear of his blood on his temple as she goes. "You're Spider-Man, aren't you? Your friends and family are out there, and more than likely they're fighting something terrible as we speak. They  _need_ you. They need one of Earth's Avengers."  
  
"I won't leave you," he chokes. "There's nobody else. I can't leave you here."  
  
Her hands press his cheeks, as she's reminded of Groot and his big eyes, so full of youthful compassion and wonder. She had missed him so much, wondering how he's been since returning to the living; wondering if everyone is treating him well. She supposes if anything, she had not missed the opportunity to be a mother, at the end of all things. She strokes a thumb under Peter's eye to catch a wayward tear. "You've done more than enough, Peter Parker. I'm forever indebted to you. And I'm glad that I had the chance to meet you."  
  
"I love you," he gasps, tears spilling. "I can't leave someone I love behind."  
  
Her eyes fill to the brim. Stupid child, with his feelings on his sleeve. So easy to speak his mind and heart.  
  
Stupid, kind child, bringing these painful emotions to the surface.  
  
_Please don't make this harder for me, Peter._  
  
"I love you, too. And I'll never, not once, forget that. And I'm—  _so_ sorry—"  
  
She presses her thumb into his wound with all the strength she has, and he screams. It's a sound that will haunt her, knowing her own hand had been the one to cause it, and her face crumples with regret as she presses harder still. The pain of it is _enough_ — it's enough to make this place no longer a safe haven, and she wills herself to be unrelenting as his blood stains her hand. "I'm so sorry, Peter, I'm so sorry, please forgive me— Go, Peter, go  _back_ —" His hands crumble away where they push at her shoulders, his legs fade and leave empty air at her side, and in a burst of gold and an echo of a wail of pain, he swirls away into nothing. There's little choice for him in the matter; pain here, or pain there, he has to choose. He has to choose _now_ , when it could mean never waking up again.  
  
She watches him disappear from her world, breathing a deep, shuddering sigh that tapers into a sob. _Just one._ Just one is what she will allow herself.  
  
"Please," she whispers, struggling with her words. "Please go home. You have to live."  
  
_Please, live._  
  
She will happily spend her existence in this fractured, empty world, if it meant she could do this one last thing. Years ago, before she'd met her crew of idiots, she would have lost her life in a battle — lost it as someone not worth loving, cold to the world and wishing for an escape from the empire her so-called father had built. Now, she can say she was proud of what she had become, built back up from the clay of those who stayed at her side, who were willing to be there all this time. She was proud to be theirs.   
  
_My family._

* * *

It's like a big _bang_ going off in his brain, startling him into awareness as fast as ice water to skin.

There's smoke in his nostrils, debris sharp under his palms, tacky blood by his cheek.   
  
Screaming pipes. Erratic breaths.  
  
_Gamora, Gamora, no, no — Come back —_  
  
Everything's too loud, too real. Peter gasps to life, his entire body seized up with pain and fingernails chipping against the bent and broken flooring beneath his body. His senses are going mad, eyes darting, throat working uselessly to breathe. It hurts like it had on Titan, just before he faded away; he'd fought so hard to live then, his body panicking and trying to build him back up with sand that was sifting out through his pores every second he struggled. He had felt like every atom in him was coming apart at the seams now, but he peeled his eyes open anyway, and saw the clear, real moon, through what was left of the jagged rooftop —  for the first time in years. He sucks in another needy breath and shakes violently where he remains almost completely immobile, unsure how to make his legs and arms work.   
  
He rolls himself onto his back, into cooling blood, and gasps for air — or tries to. It hurts so much, his lungs are seizing.   
  
"Gamora," he moans, trying to see her face. But there's nothing, nothing but sore, reddened eyes and a mouth that feels numb and elastic and fake. He can hear the sounds of battle outside, in the distance. He can see Wanda slumped near him, can feel her heartbeat shake his bones every time it pulses ( _hang in there, Wanda, I'm gonna save you, I'm gonna get you_ ).  _Life_. Life is around him, and death, and destruction. He is alive. He's _alive_. But he couldn't — he can't move. He can't move. How can he move, when his bones feel like they're grinding against each other, or when his skull feels like it's going to explode?  
  
_'You're Spider-Man, aren't you?'_  
  
Peter forces his eyes open at the phantom voice in his ears as he lay wheezing, fighting back scared, childish sobs. He bites his lip until it bleeds and rolls back onto his stomach, pulling himself to his knees. It takes him a painfully long moment to recollect himself, but when he finally pushes up to carry his weight, his eyes are glowering with determination. " _C'mon,_  Spider-Man," he whispers, "C'mon Spider-Man — c'mon Spider-Man, you're an Avenger, aren't you?! Come on! Move! Get off your ass, Spider-Man!"   
  
He crawls. One throbbing arm in front of the other, he crawls, gritting his teeth. His fingers curl against his will, but his limbs obey. The world around him shudders and groans under the stress of the combat outside. People are fighting, fighting against what, he's not sure — but he knows where he's needed, and he knows what he has to protect. The thought wills him to push forward, even as every nerve in his body kicks and screams.  
  
"Move, Spider-Man, move Peter Parker. Come on, Peter Parker!"  
  
He needs — he needs —  
  
" _Come on, Peter!_ "  
  
He sticks his hand to the hallway wall — drags himself onto feet that refuse to work. Sticks his other palm to the wall.  
  
_'They need you. They need one of Earth's Avengers.'_  
  
The armory doors are short-circuiting when he gets to them, but he shoves his way inside anyway, toppling into a table and displacing papers and equipment as blood tracks after him. There are thick glass tubes lining the room, filled with Iron Man suits, shield prototypes, and so many other things Peter used to gawk at after a long Friday after school. He stumbles through the area like a puppet floundering on strings and — and he doesn't crumble to dust. He doesn't crumble — he walks. He's alive. He's  _alive_ —   
  
And to risk another quarter in a swear jar Tony threatened often, it hurts like a  _motherfucker_.   
  
" _FRIDAY_ , are you there?" he pants, his hair sticking to his face as sweat drips along his jawline.   
  
He's not sure how much longer he'll be able to stay upright.  
  
"I — am — rker," she says, choppy. He only hopes she can still function well enough from the bowels of the facility.  
  
"Unlock Item 17A."


	15. Chapter 15

You  _try_ to get through life without any regrets, but Steve is not so optimistic that he thinks you actually can without getting your hands dirty — case in point, a lot of the things in his life up until now: things like not kissing his mother on the cheek enough or reminding her just a little more how much he loved her; like letting Bucky fall; like letting Peggy down; like trusting who and what their country was ran by too naively; like lying to Tony when his friend deserved his honesty; like not picking up the phone and calling. Oh, there's more, plenty more. But at some point, if you don't let some of it go, what becomes of you? He'd already ripped away the stars and stripes and put aside his role in the story.   
  
After Thanos and Steve's particularly grizzly injuries that followed that battle, he figured he would take a step back behind the curtain at let the next generation bow at the crowds they can inspire. Kids like Peter Parker, he realizes later on. Kids like Shuri, who are so intelligent and good-hearted.   
  
His time's done. It's probably even  _been_ done, all things considered.  
  
Or at least that's what it felt like, before the Avengers facility was attacked in the middle of the night. Bum leg and aching bones be damned, he was rushing out into the cool air and throwing his fists like he wasn't at half-strength and half-stability. He rips the spear from one alien attacker's hands and plunges it into its chest cavity, letting the gurgling breaths tell him its time to move on to the next soldier.   
  
Natasha skids by him with perfect precision, kicking a leg out from an armored warrior trying to get the drop on him. Explosions echo in the distance, and he bites his lip until it bleeds; there's nothing he can do about that kind of firepower right now, and in so many ways, he envies Stark in that moment. Captain America fought well with his fists and shield — but stopping a nuke, a bomb, an aerial attack? He can only leave it in Iron Man's capable hands.   
  
"Careful, Steve, you wouldn't want to get too shabby," Bucky yells at him, aiming and firing as he flanks left to cover his friend.   
  
Steve's leg hurts, and he medicates it by saying, "What do you mean? I could do this all day!"  
  
They're nearly launched across the field by the blast that hits the side wall, and Steve's head whips around with panic. Natasha and Peter's rooms. Nat's out, but Peter — Peter...! 

As he starts running back toward the facility with Bucky close behind, they're whipped right off their feet by one of those familiar beast-like figures, the same breed that had thrown their lives away so eagerly against Wakandan forcefields. Steve nearly loses an arm as the thing lashes out, but gunfire from above spares him anymore scars as Rhodes propels by and launches an all-out attack on ground forces. Steve can just barely make out Rhodes on his comms device, which never leaves his pocket at this point: "I — Wanda — down — injured — " 

"What happened?" Bucky asks, and Natasha's on the same page as Steve.  
  
"Wanda's injured, I think."   
  
And soon Iron Man and Falcon, too.

Metal coils around Sam like a houdini trick that he's not prepared to get out of and crash-lands ungracefully nearby. Steve's clocking one of the Black Order across the jaw and limping his way toward his fallen friend, but soon he's face-first in the grass with knees digging into his back. Their side is missing too many key players, he thinks. He's too out of comission, and Wanda's hurt, and the kid's still a ghost wandering the halls (god, unless he's dead, he prays he's not dead), and half of their team is out. It’s not good.

He struggles to be freed as Natasha and Bucky end up face-planting on either side of him, thoroughly held down by too many bodies.  
  
"We learn from our mistakes," one hisses, and Steve thinks it must surely be a survivor from the battle in Wakanda.  
  
"If you actually did, you wouldn't be here," he hisses into the soil, dirt against his teeth.  
  
His arm is hiked back and burns from the pull, but he doesn't give the bastard the satisfaction of hearing his growl of pain. He instead looks up where Ebony Maw hovers down to meet Tony — Tony, who is forced onto his knees with his metal arms pulled taut on either side of him.  _Maw's telekinetic powers,_  Steve thinks as he pants for air. Tony told him about this guy; he was supposed to be an icy statue drifting through space, but it just figured that that’s not the case. His misshapen face is covered in long scars, the flesh raised and gnarled.

With a gentle wave of Maw’s hand, Rhodes is left paralyzed mid-air before being cast aside like garbage; he hits a tree and shatters it to bits. "I'm well-aware they're not here in the facility, Stark," Maw says. "I can find the Time Stone on my own, but I know you have three."  
  
"Two, actually," Tony manages, and he sounds like his ribs are getting pushed against by his own suit. "But yeah, no, I'm not telling you—"  
  
The snarky reply is cut off into a pained noise that riles Steve's ire, and he trembles as he tries to shove off the many hands keeping him down. So that's what this is, then — an interrogation for the stones, the only reason they're not all being slaughtered in such a surprise attack. After all, it'd be so much easier to get the locations of the Mind and Soul Stones before they're killed.  
  
"How the h-hell'd you even sur-survive back then, anyway?" Tony coughs.   
  
Ebony Maw smiles, flicking his hand — a huge piece of Tony's suit flies off. It doesn't replace itself.  
  
"A foolish choice on the boy's part, not considering if I would die in the vacuum of space. How I found safety is of no concern to you." He flicks his wrist again, and one of Tony's metal legs bursts apart, leaving the singed pajama bottoms underneath. "I've grown much stronger. Strong enough to become the next Thanos — strong enough to carry on and repair his legacy you've so foolishly taken from him."  
  
"You're got to be kidding me," Sam bites, struggling to free himself from impossible metal restraints where he lay. "You ain't shit."  
  
"I will be the new leader of the Children of Thanos!"   
  
Tony's left arm is stripped of his armor.  
  
"His will is mine! It's always been mine! And I  _will_ be in possession of those  _stones_!"  
  
The arm suddenly twists an unnatural angle, and Tony screams.  
  
"Tony—!" Rhodes yells, struggling back to his feet.   
  
A pulse of red light from behind them nearly blinds Steve as it crashes down around them like waves. He peels his eyes back open to find the enemy hands holding him have suddenly vanished; the Black Order foot-soldiers are thrown forward, thrust into a crimson tornado they can't be freed from. Maw stares in slack-jawed confusion as Wanda floats down from the destroyed cliff-side of the facility, blood dripping down the side of her head and eyes glowing in a rage, and Steve pushes himself back to his feet and launches forward for a weapon.   
  
It's not over yet, and as the alien ships close in to fire on them, Wanda's hands are doing their melodic dance in the air —  
  
The smaller spacecrafts slam into an invisible wall, many bursting into fiery explosions.  
  
"I'll hold the ships back!" she yells, both hands raised as if in violent praise. "Move it now!"  
  
They rush into battle — too far from Tony to stop Maw's attack, as he lunges backward in the air with arms held out.   
  
A half-destroyed ship is catapulted straight for Tony's half-crumpled figure —  
  
— and is stopped mid-fall.  
  
Steve thinks it's Wanda's doing at first, until his brain catches up and sees the silvery string of web pulling taut in the air. Spider-Man flips through the moonlit scene, twisting himself around like a dancer as he slingshots the ship right back into the Ebony Maw's stunned face. Steve can see Bucky's grin in the corner of his eye, when Peter staggers to stand on the rooftop of the Avenger's headquarters, iron body glinting and spidery legs unfurling from the back of the hero's suit.  
  
Steve can't help but smile, too, even with the danger still so pervasive.   
  
And what's the first thing that the kid decides to say, in their company?  
  
Peter yells, his dark silhouette pointing with a convulsing, accusing finger, "Don't you  _fucking_ touch Mr. Stark, you ugly ass  _creep_!"  
  
Steve breathes out a disbelieving laugh.  
  
_Language_.

* * *

  
  
( _Peter wanders into the facility when the outside world is sleeping soundly, with rips and tears in the spider suit under his jacket and hair askew as he removes his mask. He's got his backpack with him and he's pulling materials out left and right from the main pocket before he ultimately gives up and pours it all on Tony's lab table. "Mr. Stark, could I come over to work on this project I'm doing? I mean, I've got like five hours to finish this thing."_  
  
_"Jesus, Pete, it's three in the morning."_  
  
_Peter looks sheepish. He's got a black eye from god knows what. "I know, you're right, I should've... I should just—"_  
  
_"No, no, don't finish that thought." He starts up the coffee machine in the kitchen. "C'mon, let's get to work then."_  
  
_Peter's face lights up._ )  
  
Tony's not new to getting his ass kicked, and he's not new to getting bones broken, either; Thanos and his flunkies had done a number on him back when the last big battle went down, and most of the Avengers had wounds that needed setting, that needed healing. Steve had nearly lost his leg, and he had been on bed-rest himself long enough to forcibly go into the lab and work on the gauntlet. So yeah. This kind of pain? Just the usual. He's not even surprised when he feels his left arm dangle in throbbing agony; why is it always that arm? It's a cursed goddamn limb, is what it is. Something hexed it long ago.  
  
He struggles to sit up on his good arm and figures he's as good as dead, when the ship-turned-missile is thrown at him; the iron suit isn't regenerating quickly enough to blast him out of there, and something keeps him pinned to the spot anyway, so he bows his head and waits to kick the bucket — lo and behold, the bucket is never kicked. In fact, the ship slams into Maw and leaves him reeling down towards earth, landing half-assedly on his feet as debris rains down all around him.  
  
The sound of a cursing teenager clears Tony's pain-fogged mind and leaves him speechless.  
  
"... Peter?" His throat grows a knot, eyes burning. It can't be. But it is — holy shit, it is.  
  
( _"And Ned's got a brand new video-game he's dying to try out, but I dunno if he can handle it; it's a horror game, you know? He's kind of a big softy — oh."_  
  
_Tony glances at Peter with a scoff and a raised eyebrow, though his smirk fades a little at what has drawn the kid's already battered attention span from the conversation. Peter holds an old trophy in front of him that he had taken off the nearest shelf: a replica, actually, but still no less important. It's the arc reactor, etched with those intimate, familiar words that Pepper still whispers to him when they're alone and living in their own little world._  
  
_"Aaww, look at that," Peter says with a playful smile, pressing the trophy against his chest, where the reactor would've resided in Tony's. "... Proof that Tony Stark has a heart." The sight of it leaves Tony feeling a sense of purpose that he can't quite identify. This is before everything. This is before Peter ever crumbles away to dust under his hands. It's peaceful. It's just what Tony needed._  
  
_"Give that here, you little punk," Tony huffs._  
  
_He drags the boy into a headlock and ruins his carefully combed hairdo, leaving wild curls in his wake._  
  
_"Mr. Stark?" Peter asks later, when he's packing up to go. Tony looks up expectantly. "Thanks for everything."_ )  
  
Maw's vibrating with rage. "You  _again_ , you disgusting bug!"  
  
Tony whips his wide-eyed gaze around as Peter leaps into action, swinging himself down from a high point as Ebony Maw launches an attack — shrapnel from the ship, all aimed at Peter, and no matter how thick the bleeding tech armor is it's not gonna stop Maw's puncture power. Tony grits his teeth in a panic ( _don't become me, don't let that shit pierce your chest, get near your heart, don't let it kill you kid, not again_ ), but Peter yells over any warning he may offer: "I'm an arachnid! Get it right!"  
  
The shrapnel skims him, doesn't kill him, but he can't afford anymore cuts — can't afford to lose anymore blood. He sounds shaky. Pete sounds shaky. He's  _injured_ under that suit. Yet despite that, he leaps from ship to ship, blasting webs left and right and pinning ground troops and keeping Maw's attention away from him; keeps Tony Stark alive, even with a hole in his shoulder and a set of nearly crushed ribs.   
  
Then Peter's suddenly flung through the sky by Maw's will, where Tony can't follow to catch him.   
  
_No no no no—_  
  
" _Pete_!"   
  
( _"What are you so afraid of?" Pepper asks him._  
  
_"Of letting him down," Tony says, playing with his food. "Of not being what he deserves."_  
  
_She smiles, all pale teeth and love. "You're starting to sound like a real father."_ )  
  
Tony's armor is in ruins, but he can't let Peter fall; he  _couldn't_ let Peter fall on  _his_ watch. He forces his damaged suit to work as much as he needs it to and blasts through the air with what little juice is left in the propulsion system. Everyone's trying to survive, and Peter's falling like a rag doll, he's  _falling_ and Tony needs to — he  _needs_ to catch him—  
  
( _"Ha, imagine that. Me, a dad. You're funny."_  
  
_But it sows the seed. Morgan is a good name for a baby._  
  
_When she's born, Tony wishes Peter could have been alive to hold her._ )  
  
The kid's barely conscious from the blow he'd taken as he plummets through the sky, but Tony meets him halfway down and throws his good arm around Peter — and then his broken one, too, clinging tightly to him and praying his rockets hold out long enough; they never do, though, not when he wants them to (needs them to) most, because that's just a Stark's luck. The left one goes out first, and then the right, and before he knows it he's falling toward the earth as bits of armor fleck off him like chipping paint. Peter's arms wrap around his middle, and hey, if they fall from this high, Peter'll probably survive it—  
  
The sound of a feral cry, deep and vibrating, jars him to life again.  
  
Then a flash of green color assaults Tony's vision before thick, muscular arms encircle the two free-falling heroes; suddenly they're skidding down the wall of Avenger's headquarters while nestled in the protective arms of the Hulk. Tony winces at the flicking of cement against his body, curling closer to Peter protectively as they're lowered to the earth with a cautiousness he didn't think the big green bastard had in him. Peter flops weakly in his arms, his head barely sitting upright on his neck.  
  
"Hulk saves you."  
  
Tony pats the large green leg next to him. "Yeah, yeah. Tony appreciates."  
  
_Peter. Pete. Kid._  
  
He carefully pats Peter's cheek trying to jostle him to alertness. The paleness of his face is concerning, and there's a telltale stench of blood where it's managed to stick to the kid's skin. But Peter's eyes open, full of clarity and focus and all the things that made him a worthy Avenger to begin with; he stares back at Tony for a long moment, sweat-drenched and fighting against exhaustion. And then the kid smiles, trying to speak around a lump in his throat.  
  
"See, I t—told you I'm back-up."

"You definitely saved me, back there."

Peter just grins at him, like he knows everything Tony doesn't. He crushes the kid into a one-armed hug then and there, and Peter nearly snaps his back returning it. The warmth in the gesture is one thing, but to  _feel_ Peter grip him back so fervently makes his heart swell with relief and pride and all kinds of shit he swore he'd never let a kid cause in his life. Well, it happened, and it's too late for take-backs. "Oh my god, Pete," he croaks, not bothering to keep up appearances anymore. "I thought you were... Oh,  _goddammit_ it, I was so— you little  _shit_ —"  
  
"I know," the boy mumbles into his neck, sniffling weakly; the trembling outline of a smile is there, too, but he's shaking so badly that Tony recognizes it intimately as quakes of pain. Peter forces his way through it, though, like the tough little punk he is, and Tony feels hot tears welling up in his eyes. They don't even threaten to fall — they just do — as Peter chokes out, "I know, I know. I'm sorry, I tried to come back sooner. I  _swear_ —"  
  
"No time to relax just yet, fellas," Sam says in warning, freed of his bonds and taking up a new protective stance in front of Tony and Peter. The two injured Avengers turn to look where Maw rises through the sky, like a beacon of chaotic energy, his jaw clenched and his forehead pulsing with raw, outraged power. Steve and Bucky and Rhodes meet alongside them, as Wanda drifts down with blood-doused determination etched in her brow. Hulk's fists clench where he towers behind them.  
  
Maw wipes at the wound on his cheek, persistent as fucking ever. "It doesn't  _matter_ , you're all still outnumbered!"  
  
" _You sure about that, turdbiscuit?!_ "  
  
They all look up at the sky, and above the giant enemy front-line there's a gleam of a ship that's going almost too fast to see — the Guardian's Benatar swiftly ducks and weaves through the crowded airspace, raining blasts down on the heads of their enemies; there are bursts of light and garbled screams as the Black Order's fighters eject from their seats or are decimated altogether. Tony can't see Peter Quill as he speaks through the intercom, but he can hear the shit-eating grin when the man yells, " _Bet you didn't notice us tailing your asses through space, huh?!_ "  
  
"This can't be," Maw hisses, watching his small army shrink smaller and smaller. " _No_!"   
  
" _Oh, it gets worse, it gets so much worse,_ " Quill laughs. " _Even if you screwed with their communications, us Guardians just so happen to have a particular unattractive god's number on speed dial, you no-nose-having bitch._ "  
  
The clouds above swirl, and Tony sees him now — sitting on the nose of the Benatar, Thor holds up the Stormbreaker in one strong fist as strings of electric light dance across his figure. As the ship hovers before the panicked crews of the Black Order, it takes one sharp and swift blow from the axe as Thor cuts through the sky; bursts of energy like none other claw through the air, tearing past all the smaller vessels and ripping a massive hole in the hull of the mothership.  
  
The Maw's hands rise to fight, because the bastard doesn't seem to realize when he's been thoroughly beaten. But as those gnarled, ugly fingers move to try and manipulate the world to their bidding, a familiar red cape slams into the side of his head with a gusto to steal Maw’s eyes and breath. It's more than enough time for the good Doctor Strange to appear from beyond and sharply gesture with his scarred and shivery hands — and as Maw rips away the cloak from his face and flies upward, he only has a fleeting moment to take notice of the portal forming above him before it closes right over his neck.  
  
The master of the mystic arts doesn't bat an eye at the headless alien corpse that crashes to the earth, nor at the way everyone stares at him in bafflement. Wong steps up beside his friend with arms folded at his back, as the two watch Thor's lightning tear through the skies and decimate what is left of a fleeting army. "You copied my move."

" _Dude, they busted up our wing,_ " Quill hollers from afar, " _Nebula, if you crash her, I swear to god—_ "

" _If you don't shut up, I'll have reason to!_ "  
  
"... I can't believe this is our team," Rhodes says plainly, sniffing blood back up his nose.   
  
Natasha looks around at the half-destroyed property, clutching her sore side as Wanda leans against her. "... Clint is going to be so angry he missed this."  
  
"I bet he will," Peter laughs weakly, shivering.

And then promptly passes out in Tony's arms.

* * *

"Aw, _man_...!" 

Giant-Man sighs where he towers over the smoldering front half of the Avengers compound, minutes behind their victory. He'd seen the crazy damage going on from a breaking news report and flew an ant over as fast as he could — to no avail. He looks sheepishly over. "I was too late, wasn't I?"

"... _Yyyyeah_ ," Rocket speaks for everyone, arms crossed as he kicks at a dented up helmet abandoned on the lawn. "Yeah, you're stupidly late, it's insanely embarrassing. But hey, checkout this cool robot arm I stole off some alien's corpse!"

 


	16. Chapter 16

Peter floats.

It is both familiar and foreign all at once — the sensation of drifting through an empty darkness is not new, not after Thanos killed him and so many others, but this _isn't_ the soul world. This isn't him endlessly floating through all of his sins and mistakes, and he isn't listening to some imaginary Ben's angry admonishments, or feeling pulled to pieces in all directions. There isn't any suffering. There isn't any fear. There aren't any doubts. He doesn't have to think of all the places he went wrong as Spider-Man, or the places he went wrong as Peter Parker, and there are no souls crying out for peace or safety or their loved ones...

But he also eventually drifts back to the surface. Towards consciousness. 

And it isn't as peaceful. With a soft groan his eyelids flutter partly open, the lights above feeling ten times brighter than they probably are. His whole body aches something fierce; it's a sensation that starts at his toes and goes all the way to the top of his head, with an additional throbbing in his abused ribs and stiffened shoulder. He feels the shape and warmth of a familiar petite hand on his just as he moans, and his weak fingertips curl around the palm instinctively.

"Peter, baby, I've got you," May's voice drifts. "Does it hurt? Are you in pain? Tony, can't we put more in the drip?"

"Sorry, May, the kid burns right through it."

"No, no, m'okay," he mutters, as his vision adjusts to the blurry figures in the room. Tony's standing at the foot of his medical bed with his arm in a sling, face peppered with little cuts and bruises. Meanwhile, Aunt May's got his hand in a tight grip as she sits in the chair next to him, her eyes glistening with relieved tears — it occurs to him, in his foggy state of mind, that he hasn't spoken to her in years. _Years_. And now she's staring at him like she's afraid he'll just evaporate into nothing again. The thought of it makes his own eyes burn, and he smiles at her, trying to ease her fears. "Hey May, I'm here."

It hurts a little when she leans in and grabs him into a hug, even if she's being so gentle; Peter supposes it couldn't have been a very long time since he had initially passed out to begin with, since his arms are littered with half-healed cuts from the shrapnel Ebony Maw had shot at him. He supposes that must've also been the cause of the tightness and stinging he felt on the left side of his head, too. The pain is worth it, though, to be able to hug May back, to be able to use his arms and press his face against her shoulder, truly. She sobs once and breaks his heart, and he strokes the buttons of her spine with the hand that's currently lacking an IV.

"It's okay," he whispers. "I'm okay. I love you, May."

"I love you, too. I love you so much." He lifts his face to look at Mr. Stark from over her shoulder, as the hero stands close by with relief in his eyes. Peter can't help but smile at him, though it echoes something still broken — still not at all mended, not when he thinks of his time drifting among the souls, or the desperate smile on Gamora's face. She'd said she loved him, too; if it wasn't for her... he'd be... The thought clouds his expression, and Tony furrows his brow worriedly at the misery etched there.

"Kid?"

Peter shakes his head minutely as he tries to reign his emotions in, and May pulls back. "Oh, god, I'm not hurting you, am I? Peter?"

"No, no, I'm — I'm fine," he says, sniffling and feeling all but five. 

She scratches at the back of his head with her nails, a gesture she's always done for him — especially when he was sick or sad, something that reminded him instantly of childhood and the good and bad that came with it, in that wistful, nostalgic way. "You should rest a little more. Keep your strength building up, okay? You've got a lot to catch up on, you know."

"I know," he rasps, and she reaches for a glass of water with a straw so that he can drink before he can even so much as wave it off. That's mom-types for you — always one step ahead. A smile finally does reach his eyes at the thought, and he quietly drinks under the watchful eyes of Mr. Stark and May. He scoffs and rubs at his eye, and even leaning back into his pillow feels like a gigantic effort. "... Man, it's been a crazy few weeks, huh? Took me long enough, I bet."

May and Mr. Stark look at each other, frowning. 

"Pete," Tony says, "You came back to earth nearly six months ago."

 

* * *

 

Mr. Stark had a lot to deal with — um. Mainly the big gaping holes and broken security systems and busted pipes and — You know. Just a lot. But he had promised to return later once construction was back under way and they were all done shoveling alien corpses and debris off the lawn where Happy liked to golf on the weekends. And he also promised to come with company, and that would be when Peter was a little more rested; Peter wanted to argue that he spent a little _too_ long being rested, and that no, he didn't _need_ a therapist (maybe he did), and no, he was going to be _fine_ (maybe he wasn't), but Tony was usually out the door before the teenager could properly complain.

May almost never left his side that day, save to pee and all that fun stuff. He tries not to think of the fact that Avengers like Steve Rogers — one of his _idols_ in childhood — took him to the bathroom a lot. He tries not to think of how May had to work with a feeding tube, one that was still in his side even at this very moment, the same one Bruce explained the removal procedures for. He's lost a little weight, and some muscle, too, and everything about him feels like he's a _toddler_ learning how to walk. Maybe that's the injuries talking, but it's no less frustrating to find your body only to realize you're still kind of busted up; it's not a huge deal, because ultimately he'll be healed within a few days at the least, but it still drives him a little crazy.

It's not until the afternoon he woke up that people are finally allowed to pop in, once he's not falling asleep every other minute. Peter Quill pokes his head in, knocking on the backside of his door so he's not completely surprising the boy in the bed. The Guardian looks like he hasn't slept in a week. Maybe _months_ , now that Peter knows just how long it's been since they rode home together on the  _Benatar_. Rocket swiftly bypasses his captain, forgoing any politeness as he plops down on the bench near the window; it's a nice view. "Hey kid. Sorry your room was blown up."

"Rocket," Quill huffs, and the raccoon just shrugs with his hands in the air. 

"What?! It was a nice thing to say, wasn't it? Drax?"

"I think it was nice, yes," the man mutters, and Quill shoots them a glare where they've both decided to keep the nice view at the window company. Groot lumbers in a moment later, looking curiously at Peter as if he expects the boy to be a mirage or something — a party trick, or a magician's grand finale. And Peter is so preoccupied with the fact that he's finally getting to see the talking raccoon and walking tree in person, he almost doesn't notice the gentle way that Mantis takes over one of the bedside seats.

At first he wonders how they managed to get by May and Tony's eagle eyes (FRIDAY has been keeping tabs, anyway), but then he recognizes that this isn't just them coming to meet the kid that had walked among them for half a year. This is their link to Gamora, and for a moment, his heart clenches painfully in his chest. He hasn't said anything about her yet. Not to May, not to Tony, not to Dr. Banner or Dr. Cho.

And now they're here — wanting answers. Wanting to know what happened, far, far away from this place.

"... How're you feeling?" Quill asks, sitting down in the chair reserved for May. 

"Umm," is all he manages to get out, before he slowly doubles over and starts crying into the rough fabric of his hospital blankets. He couldn't even pretend to not know what comes over him; the thing is, he's still alarmed by the suddenness in which everything breaks down. He presses his eyes to the darkness his now tear-slicked palms provide and feels like he's gonna just break apart — like he's had a wall put up for battle, and now that the fight's all done with, it's weathered and crumbling just in time to have survived its purpose. It collapses over in a heap like him, and for a moment he can't even talk. Can't even think of anything beyond the pain in his shoulder, once from Gamora's phantom fingers, or the way she cupped his cheek like his aunt would have, when he was scared. The Guardians are uncharacteristically silent in the wake of his weeping; for a moment he thinks that maybe he's freaked them all out and they're inching their way out of the room, but then a calloused, heavy hand presses against his neck like a weighted blanket, stabilizing him.

Quill doesn't say anything at first, just leaves his hand there as Peter heaves a sob. 

His voice is rough and edged with something sad, when he finally mumbles, "Go ahead, it's alright."

He wonders if Mr. Quill's even given _himself_ permission, to cry like this. 

Mantis' soft hand reaches to press against Peter's forearm, and she sucks in a pained breath. Whatever she feels through him, she keeps it their secret, but the turmoil is there — guilt, fear, pain, all the things that the soul realm churned within him, all the things that so many had forgotten when they returned. But not Peter. No, he was going to carry this and the memories of those twinkling souls — he was going to carry the memory of a green-skinned child hiding from a psychopath who called himself a 'father' — and nothing would ever be quite the same.

It takes some time for Peter to come back to himself, and by then Groot has kindly extended his arm across the room to offer a tissue box for Peter, and he rips a number of kleenex from it. As he corrals his wayward emotions and clears his throat, he begins to tell Quill everything he must want to hear: he tells him about the two years he'd spent with Gamora, at first both children who had aged so suddenly with the clarity they'd found in the situation. He tells them all about Gamora teaching him to meditate, and how they spent their time talking before and after Peter had reached out to his physical body. He told him about how often she asked about them, about how much she surely missed them. 

... How much she loved her family. 

"I'm sorry," Peter says, when the silence carries through the room. "I'm really sorry."

"Hey, no, you're fine, kid. You're — look." Quill breathes out, closing his eyes for a long moment. When he opens them again, there's some sense of purpose there; some semblance of certainty that Peter's hard-pressed to find right now, after waking up all over again. "I just... Thank you. For being there for her. Not letting her be alone all this time. And it's not over yet, you hear me? You're proof that Gamora's not gone. She's just... harder to reach than we were. Right?"

Peter's brow furrows.

"It's possible that anything we do can't bring her back, and that she's — gone. And if it doesn't work out— Then we'll... accept it." Quill stops, bites his lip, and sucks in a sharp breath like a man not remotely ready to let go; Groot looks at him with fear in his eyes, as if such a thing should have never been uttered in the first place. "We'll keep going, like she'd want. We're still the Guardians, and we still have things to do. People to protect... to make up for everything we couldn't."

"But we have the Soul Stone," Rocket says, his voice rough. He's better at keeping up appearances than Quill, and plays it cool as he paws at his beady black nose, plays it like he's not just as anxious as the others are. "It's part of the reason the snap got undone, yeah? And as soon as we're done making the repairs on our ship after those Children of Thanos dicks messed it all up, we're takin' it back to that stupid ass mountain, and we're gonna try to trade it off. Y'know, like you'd trade hostages? That kinda thing. But with a stupid rock." 

"Like taking the ring to the mountain," Peter says, a reference only the captain would even get, judging by the confused looks Mantis and Drax adopt; Quill's weary expression relaxes into something more like a smile, though. It's a good look on him, Peter thinks, and maybe he'll forgive him this  _one_ time for hating on Footloose.

"... You got it, kid. It's our big shot, and a long one, but we're not about to let it go to waste, you know?" 

Peter nods, something in his chest fluttering. Amid all the chaos he'd woken up into, there's a sense of hope, among the Guardians and in him — something worth clinging to. He doesn't want to think of anything failing, of any of them having to carry on without one of their own. Thor had lost people, and Wanda lost someone, and he doesn't wanna think of them having to also suffer that same grueling fate. If there's a chance... "Before you guys go — make sure you come say goodbye to me first, okay?"

Quill gives a promising nod, rising to his feet. He seems a little less weighted as he moves toward the door, straightening his red leather jacket.

"You bet. Though by the time visiting hours are done for you around here, you might wish you'd had more time to chill."

"No way," Peter says, smiling enough to reach his eyes at least. "The more the merrier."

As he follows after Quill, Drax whispers a bit too loudly, "I  _knew_ suplexing him would have helped," and the captain shoves at him with an elbow as they vanish from view. Rocket wanders by after them, only a pair of bobbing ears at the foot of Peter's bed before he makes it to the door; Groot carefully extends a handheld gaming system to Peter to take, looking a little uncertain of his gesture. He clearly loves the handheld gadget, because Peter distinctly remembers hearing the thing whenever he was around the guy. 

Peter laughs weakly, humored and grateful, and offers it back. "Thank you, dude. But you should keep this; you like this one, right?"

He absolutely proves Peter's point by looking relieved when it's returned, and starts away through the door.

When Mantis goes to leave his beside, Peter reaches out and grabs her hand, beckoning her to stay for just a moment. Her antennas glow, a soft and comforting presence among the fluorescent lights that bathe the room. And honestly, he feels like he's such a tornado on the inside that he's not really sure what she feels in the grip of his fingers. He hopes it doesn't bother her. He hopes she can feel the brittle hope that trickles through. "Mantis, um."

She looks at him, big black eyes slightly widened.

"Thanks. For worrying about me so much. For being there so much, and — and helping me sleep."

Strangely, she looks lost for a moment, as if she hadn't expected his kindness or praise. As if it was something so _entirely_ normal and routine for her.

Her smile is awkward and out of practice, but warm. 

"It was my honor, Man-Spider."

* * *

Quill was right, by the way.

Everyone who graced the halls often had been made acutely aware that the person they'd been helping care for was propped up in a bed, just ready for visiting. Between Mr. Stark bringing him a lot of snacks that probably weren't OKed by any medical professional, and May checking in on him regularly with some new bit of news (" _Michelle's in town, she's dying to see you again, I'm sure you'll be able to go home soon since your room is... under... construction!"_ ), he was also running into a variety of excited faces. Wanda had been the first to visit, though, her head wrapped up with gauze and face speckled with little scabs; Peter had already completely healed from his own tiny scrapes, and by tomorrow the bigger scratches across his arms and legs would be gone, too, so he felt a little guilty seeing her as is.

She'd waved it off, though, and they spoke about — _things_. Wanda's room had been partly torn up in the attack, but she had been happy to find most items of sentimentality were unscathed; it reminded him of all the things she'd lost, and though he didn't know the full extent of her pain and heartache, he couldn't help but feel that deep well of sympathy for her. 

"I'm sorry for saying the things I said," she tells him when all is said and done, and he cocks his head, confused.

"I don't think, um... I remember what you said, but I'm sure you didn't mean it?"

She almost seems relieved that she may be able to dodge around whatever bullet this may be, but then her expression falters and she thinks better of it. He wouldn't have blamed her if she just let it all go, though. Instead she looks at the floor, like maybe it was too much to face him head on with whatever confession she had cupped behind her tongue. "I was bitter. I was in a bad place, and when I looked into your mind, I didn't see you; I called you a lost cause. I said you may have been better off dead. And I'm sorry for that."

"... Oh. Well..." He stops, looking at his feet for a moment. "I wasn't a lost cause, so it's okay." She relaxes a fraction, only to stiffen again when he says so very surely, "And neither are you."

"... You did not hear the  _first_ bit, but you heard  _that_ , did you?"

An apologetic and sheepish expression tugs at his features.  
  
"That's usually how it worked. I also heard you and Mr. Barton talking about hotdogs? And for the record, hot dogs are  _awesome_."  
  
"Peter..." she says, a harmless warning. But then she licks her lips and nods, rubbing the corner of her eye. "I suppose I can accept us not being lost causes together. Just promise me you will not go missing for so long again — Tony Stark is intolerable now when you're gone, it seems."   
  
"... Yeah. Yeah, I gotcha. I won't."  
  
But there was also some part of him that wasn't so sure.  
  
There was some part of him that knew that maybe — maybe he'd be saying goodbye again.  
  
His mind went to work as footsteps and familiar voices echoed in the hallways outside, and he thought about souls that twinkled like stars.


	17. Chapter 17

Peter finds the longer he's laying in a bed, the more he's discomforted by it — not only because he's sore but because it feels so utterly foreign after two years not needing that comfort. Tony offers him some top of the line mattress stuff while he's bedridden for another two nights, but he doesn't have the energy or heart to explain that he's used to resting on a grassy hill. It wasn't even physical, and with no body then he wonders why it's bothering him even now. He feels himself grow a little anxious, too, when he looks out his window in the late night and finds that even the few twinkling stars on the city line is enough to put him on edge; Bruce kindly closes the curtains, and he gets a few hours rest.  
  
A few, though. He's restless, wanting out of this place. He'd spent so much time wandering in his uncooperative body, he really just wants to start walking the whole place again with no destination in mind. Every time he dreams, he dreams of orange skies and cartwheels and ziborthhogs. He knows that he's not connected anymore, feels it in the very pit of his soul, but the other world still lingers over him, relentless. He knows Mr. Stark worries about it a lot; he's forced away so much during the first day thanks to rebuilding efforts, he hardly gets to see him, but he always finds time to rush in — and in that goofy little arm sling, with a goofy overly bulky cast. Peter stops him on one of his rampages through Peter's side of the medical wing, ushering him to take a minute before he has a stroke or something.  
  
"Lemme see," he says, chipper, and Tony rolls his eyes to the heavens.  
  
"I was afraid you'd say that," he says, which is enough to pull Peter out of his confused funk and plant a real grin on his face.  
  
"Now I  _really_ gotta see it."  
  
The signs of a real team is there, scribbled in sharpie all over Tony's cast: a bunch of inky ants skittering in a line, some completely lame science joke on the palm by Bruce, a really nice Iron Man mask (probably by Steve, since he's so good at drawing), and Rhodes very clearly has labeled the forearm  _TONY STANK_  in big, bold letters that are too hard to miss. Peter laughs a pained laugh, his ribs trembling at him in displeasure, but it's worth it for the way Mr. Stark smirks back at him — though not without looking kind of surprised first. "Oh, yeah, laugh it up, kid."  
  
"Sorry, Mr. Stank,  _really_ sorry." To that, Tony shoves lightly at Peter's forehead.   
  
"Good to see you're laughing again, you little troll," he huffs, and Peter stops, looking at him with teary eyes that soften a fraction. Tony takes note of his confusion, and instead switches to brush his fingers teasingly through the youth's wild, curling hair. "You were worrying the attractive aunt and me for a while there; between the quiet spells and the awkward yearbook smiles, we weren't sure how you were doing."  
  
Oh. He feels a little guilty, looking down to his fidgeting hands. "I didn't realize."  
  
Time passes so differently, and he doesn't really feel very aware of his body — if he had been his usual self, he probably would have done a better job at putting up a front. But despite the apologetic sag of his shoulders, Tony just waves a dismissive hand. "Don't start with the guilt stuff, kid. We're just happy to have you here with us, okay? I've — we've been waiting way too long. Doesn't matter what you're like now that you're on the other side, as long as you're asking for help when you need it."  
  
A quiet falls over them, and Tony sits patiently on the edge of Peter's bed. There's a fondness in his eyes that burns right through Peter's defenses, like Mr. Stark's really happy; it's ridiculous, because they totally all got hurt less than 48 hours ago, and there's, like, billions of dollars worth of damages, and he had to deal with aliens  _again_ when everyone had thought Thanos' horrible will was squashed—  
  
"Do you need it, Pete?" Peter looks up, and Tony clarifies with a softness he isn't used to, "Help. Someone to talk to. You know, I've been talking to someone, myself; sometimes it's good to just get it all out there, and feel a little less crazy. Or sad. Or whatever you're, uh. Dealing with. There's nothing wrong with asking for help if you want it or need it."  
  
Peter looks at his feet, feeling conflicted — conflicted as ever, honestly. He says, "I need to think about it."  
  
And Tony nods, leans in, and hugs him in a way he's not used to him ever doing before. But he finds that he doesn't much mind it, and that maybe hugs from the people he loves will become more and more of a normality. Mr. Stark smells like cologne and hand sanitizer, and he tries not to grin at the thought of him worried about spreading germs around his hospital bed. He closes his eyes and enjoys the moment among the living, no longer a zombie forced to wander through a haze. "... I'm proud of you, Peter. You did good, okay? On Titan, and here, you did really great."  
  
"Thank you, Mr. Stark," he whispers softly.  
  
Tony scoffs, pulling away. "That's Mr. Stank to you."  
  
"When do I get to meet Morgan, anyways?" The heavy air fades a little, as he impatiently taps on an invisible wristwatch. "I wanna meet the terrible terror!"   
  
"When she's not sneezing all over your bed, maybe," Tony huffs, and Peter returns the huff in full.  
  
"C'mon, I'll be totally healed by the end of the week!"   
  
"Doctor's orders, no can do, so sorry."  
  
"But I get visitation now!  _Mr. Stark_!"  
  
"Calm down, calm down — Pepper and her are staying elsewhere until things are less hazardous for kids here. Tomorrow, promise. Now get some sleep and heal with your freaky spiderling powers." He almost complains, but ultimately accepts his fate. He lays back in what isn't grass, looks at lights that aren't orange, and wonders if he's even fully awake. Maybe he'll take Mr. Stark up on those offers for help. 

* * *

  
  
Speaking of visitations: they come and go throughout the afternoon, and it all starts with Scott Lang — who is woefully missing Cassie Lang, though she's currently at school in California, making the grades and getting those AR reader points. Peter is admittedly a little sad to miss meeting his first real connection to the outside world face-to-face; he owes that kid a lot, because if she hadn't been there, who knows how he would have ended up? Who knows if the Guardians would have taken off earlier, and left them less defended in the final battle? Heck, who knows if anyone would have had any hope in his recovery. Months must've been a long time to wait for a miracle.  
  
"By the way, super sorry about slapping you out of the air way back when," Scott says, clapping his hands together.  
  
"It's all good, I'm the one who knocked you over. But if you really wanna make it even — you think you can sneak me some Taco Bell?"  
  
"Ummm, I'm one of the coolest thieves in the building? As in, one of the only ones. So absolutely, can do. Just don't tell your scary aunt."  
  
He pauses, and then points at Peter, more gravely.  
  
"And stealing is wrong, don't do it."  
  
"Are you putting terrible thoughts in this kid's head, tic-tac?" Sam slides into the room and announces his presence in that slick and teasing way he tends to, as if he were built for that set-up all his life. Perfected it, really. Scott turns and looks at him with a frown, before Sam shoulders by with arms crossed and a smile on his face. "Hey, kid. Don't you go trying to eat fast food when you've got someone with a kitchen here."  
  
"You're turning into a cafeteria lady more and more by the day," Scott points out, very literally, and Sam pushes the finger away.  
  
"Don't think I haven't noticed your gross ant army lingering around my stove, Lang. I will  _not_ hesitate to slap some paper towels down."  
  
"Wha— you leave my pals alone!"  
  
Peter just looks pleasantly between the two of them as they bicker, feeling like he's got a front row chair to some kind of comedy. It's a nice feeling to just watch, to find this sort of banter familiar; he had tried so hard to listen in on these sorts of fights before, but the fog had always been so much. Too much. And when Scott eventually vanishes to help with the efforts ("See, Giant-Man is totally useful for picking up heavy debris!") Sam stays behind and takes a seat. At first Peter's a little confused — he just starts handing him some pamphlets, his expression a little more serious.  
  
"Listen, Peter, I know you were talking with Tony earlier; the help he offered? It's something I can provide. Just read through these and let me know if any of it resonates with you, alright?" Peter blinks up at him, and he continues, "I help soldiers who have been through the ringer. Soldiers who are dealing with post traumatic stress and need ways to handle it; I do it with Bucky, too — which he's cool with me telling you, by the way. So you can always chat with him, too."  
  
"Wait, wait, Mr. Wilson — I'm  _not_... I don't think that kind of thing applies to me..."  
  
I'm not a soldier, I haven't faced war like they have.   
  
"You don't need to have a rank in the military to have PTSD, kid. Survivors of sexual assault and natural disasters'll tell you as much; even if they're different circumstances, they're all something that can cause some pretty specific issues. What you went through? What everyone went through? That's a  _lot_ to take in. And your case is sensitive compared to people like me, even if you hate that fact; you said you remember everything from then. Two whole years of it, and then some." He gives pause when Peter seems a little anxious, as he rubs the skin of his palm until it reddens. His tone is just as light and compassionate when he says, "You've been having some trouble sleeping, like yesterday, right? And Bruce told me looking out the window at night messes with your heart monitor readings."  
  
Looking at the window, gleaming with sunshine in the moment, Peter swallows hard. It was true, that things weren't... really as happy a fairy tale as he'd hoped. Part of him expected to just wake up his old self, ready to leap back into a life he'd missed so much of like — like being Spider-Man, the friendly neighborhood hero, but maybe that was naive and wishful thinking. The paper brochure crinkles a little under his thumb, and he smiles timidly.  
  
"I need to think about it," he says, not for the first time.  
  
Sam just nods, like he expected as much.

* * *

  
  
"... How's your cardiograms lately?" Peter asks innocently.  
  
Sitting beside the bed, Happy looks particularly unamused by the question as he peers up from his newspaper, like Peter might have been the root cause of any anomalies in his diagnostics. "Eat your vegetables."  
  
_This_ reminds him of life before the snap.   
  
It feels nice.

* * *

  
  
"Hello, Peter," Cho says, smiling as she handles his little folder of medical know-how. She's dressed up in scrubs and looks at his information with some measure of approval, as Bruce tap-tap-taps his pen against the edge of the bed. Cho's nice, and she genuinely seems like someone who just wants to help her fellow man — that kinda doctor. Peter's relieved to have her on call, and even if he's getting a little nervous, she seems patient and forthcoming on everything he wants to know about the g-tube removal thing. Or rather, she's very forthcoming about any information May wants to know, because lord knows his aunt won't be absent for a surgery, even if it's minor; she took the day off work for it, and sits patiently at Peter's side as he speaks.  
  
"Sorry, I've never actually been, like —  _awake_ for surgeries. And I wasn't really there for putting this thing in..."   
  
It's probably way too obvious he's nervous about it, by the way his eyes roam and his lip is gnawed on. "Don't worry about a thing," Cho says in that pleasant way of hers, "It's a very quick and easy procedure, and I'll have Dr. Banner here at my side as well."   
  
Dr. Banner reaches and gives Peter's good shoulder a soft squeeze. "Sure am. Cho's a really phenomenal doctor, Peter."  
  
"Alright, Peter. I see you've gotten the food dye down; nothing by mouth for four hours after the tube's removed, alright? And it will be very, very light eating, so don't let Mr. Wilson bully you into a sandwich, no matter how much he wants to hen you." Dr. Cho goes over the post-procedural instructions, and it's a good thing that May's here to listen with profound focus, because Peter feels like he's sort of losing bits and pieces of her lengthy explanation. It's not that he's — leaving to another world. There's no other world to go to. But he just... is having a hard time focusing. He swallows hard and realizes they're all looking at him expectantly, like one of them must have asked them a question.  
  
May squeezes his hand. "Are you okay, Peter?"  
  
"Always," he says. "Sorry, I spaced out a little. Um... I'm ready? I just wanna get this over with."  
  
It's not really as bad as he thought it was gonna be, though. He gets to somehow stay awake for it, which is kind of freaky but also a blessing, 'cus he's not so sure he'll be okay with being forced back into darkness he can't wake up from. And really, it doesn't take any time, or it doesn't feel like it does, because by the time they're done with it, he's right back in his hospital room with a new gross thing to look at on him.   
  
They're not super surprised when nothing oozes through the bandages, and they're also not surprised when the incision is just an angry pink scab the next morning. In fact, not only is his g-tube wound healing exponentially fast, all of the cuts on his arms and legs are all but gone now; the wound in his shoulder is still a throbbing, ugly pain deep in the muscle, but all it needs is a sling and an order not to over-work it. His ribs, um, they hurt. But they're just sore ribs, nothing more, nothing less.  
  
Tony's a little jealous of the spider healing, and that does put a smile on Peter's face.  
  
At any rate, it only takes three days for him to be able to hobble around again like he used to (though he didn't exactly tell anyone else he was going to, but he was going stir-crazy, s-so...). It's a little awkward, because the place is full of construction workers and everything's sort of screwed up on the front face of the building. He wanders over to the blocked off area where his old room used to be, and he frowns a little at the singed remained of what was once a place he loved sleeping over in. His posters, his stupid tech he left behind — man, it's all gone. He was just lucky that he left before he ended up another piece of the scene lost.   
  
"Talk about a close call," he mumbles to himself, "Huh, Gamora?"  
  
Sometimes he can't help but talk to her, like she'll hear him. He knows, deep down, that she doesn't.  
  
As he walks back into the kitchen he'd been blindly walking into for a while now, he's not surprised to find it empty — lunch is way over and dinner isn't even close yet, and everyone has so much to do around the facility now that it's half-broken. What he doesn't expect is the stool in front of him, and the paper sign that hangs off the back of it, scribbled in what looks like Rhodes' nice bold handwriting:  
  
**_"PETER PARKER'S STOOL, VIOLATORS WILL BE TOWED."_**

Well... Peter's nothing if not devoted to bull-headed routine.

He huffs a chuckle, and takes a seat.  



	18. Chapter 18

"Ooh, Morgan," Peter exclaims, and for a teenager with no children in his family, his words sound so easy and natural, "That dress is  _sooo_ pretty. Whatcha' got there?"  
  
"This — this my Princess Lilia cup, see?"   
  
Morgan twists left and right where she stands, almost spilling Lucky Charms all along the floor in her eagerness.

... Pepper isn't sure if she should explain that it was a Disney princess from a movie last summer.  
  
She was more than happy to keep Tony's word and visit with Morgan, especially since her daughter's play room had been spared the toll of battle; something about it felt like a sign, that everything would be alright in the end — but for Tony, it's nightly terrors that keep in him a cold sweat, asking after Morgan and the others when he wakes. Asking after Peter. She was no stranger to Tony's many blockades that he tended to place around him, especially after the death of his parents, and of Jarvis. With the betrayal of Obadiah all those years ago, one of the few people he had left to look to for help and trust? Those blockades only got more intricate. It was why, as much as he drove her insane and tested the durability of their relationship, she at least understood. Oh, she still resented it often and had plenty to complain about to her friends, but she  _understood_.  
  
Then Tony and Steve fell  _hard after_ the Accords. Pepper wasn't surprised that that particular stab had struck bone and made Tony all the more eager to work by himself, watching the other heroes from afar. Tony used precise calculations, wrote up many blueprints for the walls he'd built around himself. He toiled away at ways to still protect people, but keep a measured distance from the hearts of those around him. _Safeguarded_ himself.  
  
And Peter Parker swung in like a bull in a china shop, smashing headlong into those barriers and nearly giving himself a concussion in the process.  
  
Pepper wasn't surprised that _this_ was the boy who snuck through the billionaire's defenses when she'd met him all those years ago. She had heard of Tony's bright idea to employ a novice superhero in capturing the rogue Avengers back when; he had been alarmingly too prepared to get an angry lecture from her, when she pulled up Peter's file and saw ' _15 YEARS OLD_ ' in bold, confounding text. The guilt at his actions had been evident in his lack of rebuttal, at the very least. Then in the later months that followed an ill-fated Homecoming dance, Peter had started wandering into the lab more and more, sprinkled with bruises and cuts and sporting mussed hair. Pepper was still silently pissed off about the whole Germany thing — but at least she could see where her husband had been angling from, even if his aim was careless in the grand scheme of things back then.  
  
Peter was a common presence, and Tony tried to make up for the stumbles before. And soon 'kid' became so regular in Tony's vernacular, it was almost akin to the sound of a hen squawking and pecking along. _Kid, kid, kid._ The  _kid_ broke his wrist. The  _kid_ is working on his science project. The  _kid's_ turning sixteen. The  _kid_ screwed up big time. She found that instead of being up late to work on his latest suit, he would sometimes be monitoring screens when FRIDAY would announce any kind of anomaly in Peter's health. She found that instead of going out to some political party and opening up new avenues, he would secretly be elbows-deep in a project with an over-excited highschooler. Sometimes Tony would pretend he was just in the neighborhood and pick him up outside of his school. It wasn't exactly an  _every_ day event, these visitations, but Tony's eyes had seemed to grow more and more hawk-like as months fell away from the calendar.   
  
She thinks that Peter had longed for someone to fill a particular hole in his heart for many months, by then. Maybe both he _and_ Tony had. As much as May had been Peter's lighthouse in the storm, and as much as Pepper had read about post traumatic stress and left herself open to Tony's needs, sometimes that's just not enough — sometimes you need something so particular, it just _fits_ , like a nut to a bolt. What Harley Keener started as a begrudging admission from Tony that children weren't  _so_ bad eventually turned into him and Peter eating sandwiches on a couch, covered in oil and talking about technical science-y things Pepper couldn't even begin to wrap her head around.   
  
Tony loved Peter. And she had a feeling Peter loved Tony long before Iron Man walked into his Queens apartment talking about grants.  
  
So she wasn't _shocked_ , when Tony mentioned that he'd dreamed of having children before.  
  
Of having 'a kid'.   
  
Pepper slides into one of the pink plastic chairs lining the play room and can't help but feel like this was all meant to happen — her, watching Morgan vibrantly explain the details of her tutu, whirling with energy while Peter sits cross-legged and nodding to every logical and illogical sound coming out of the toddler's mouth. He looks over the moon — for once.   
  
It's only been three days in total since the boy woke back up, but Pepper is no stranger to monitoring the mental and emotional state of a superhero: he was smiling, yes, but there was something dark and brewing under the boy's skin. There was doubt in his eyes and a hesitancy to the way he smiled, like he was nervous at the  _thought_ of having a positive human feeling. It wasn't exactly a  _shock_. He had essentially woken up to a world that carried on without him for years. She'd spoken to Sam a lot about it when they lingered about the parking lot earlier, and he had noticed it, too.   
  
"Don't drop me," Morgan commands, as Peter lets her sit on his shoulders to add more megablocks to the tower they're forming. She has a fist in his hair and it probably hurts about as much as when she does it to Tony, but Peter just winces and endures it, giving a thumbs up.   
  
"Noooo, I won't, I swear."  
  
"Spider-Man swings, swings from up — up high, _high_ up here, you see?" Morgan motions wildly to the tip-top of the multicolored tower, which is more like a skyscraper now in her capable hands. Peter blinks in awe at that, and Pepper laughs a little.  
  
"Of course she knows about Spider-Man," she tells Peter, "Why wouldn't she?"  
  
"R—right," Peter says, looking touched, and maybe a little lost. "Right, Spider-Man's pretty cool. Pretty solid dude."  
  
"I think so, too," Pepper adds, enjoying the familiar way the boy flusters.   
  
The skyscraper ends up crashing down in ruin about five minutes later, and both of them have to quell the heartbroken wails of a very upset child (who had _not_ been laid down yet for noontime beauty sleep). Morgan snores away with her furnace of a mouth buried in Pepper's neck, limbs sprawled akimbo over her, and Peter begins the oh-so-arduous process of rebuilding the stack so she has something nice to wake up to after her tantrum-nap. Pepper observes the boy with a knowing little look, and says finally, "Are you doing alright, Peter?"  
  
"Hmm?" Peter looks up, and it seems a bit comical that he's so wide-eyed beside a stack of children's toys. He had lost some weight in the six months he'd been resurrected, but his shoulders are broad, muscular, and creaky with the unseen  _weight_ pressing over him. He looks too big beside the tiny chairs at the tiny table.  
  
"You've gotten this talk a lot, I know. But I also know you haven't really said much other than 'I'm fine' or some variation."  
  
Peter huffs a laugh, pressing and pulling large LEGO blocks apart, the gesture entrancing.  
  
"I'm fine."  
  
"... Very funny. But... I want you to know that I'm not Tony, and I'm not May, and I'm not any of your co-workers. So if you're worried about saying something that'll worry them — you can always talk to me." She adjusts the dead weight on her chest, Morgan's hair tickling under her chin. "Just like the time you called me when you tried a funny joint that one time?"  
  
"Oh  _god_ , don't remind me," he says with a blush. But he seems to get the sincerity in her offer. She gives him plenty of time to say something, anything, or perhaps nothing at all. "It's — it's stupid. It's really stupid, Pepper."   
  
"No, it probably isn't," she chides, with no heat behind it. The certainty in which she says it seems to encourage him.  
  
"It is, though. Mr. Rogers had to deal with everyone he cared about being old or dead, when he woke up from the ice. Mr. Rogers had to deal with whole decades going by — and everything was so different for him, you know? Crazy different. But he still put on the suit and kept working so hard, and yeah, things didn't exactly go so smooth — but he did what he had to, and he's stronger and braver than me, because I'm sitting here feeling like everything's screwed up." He looks up at her sharply, sucking in a breath. "Ned's in college. He and MJ, they've got their own lives. They moved on and they've got new friends, and they're  _okay_. They're dealing, like everyone else is. There are pictures of them online with people, and I — I have no clue who any of them are. Tomorrow I'm supposed to go meet MJ at some cafe, and I have absolutely no clue what to say or how to even start to be a normal person again."   
  
He puts his head in his hands and smooths his hair back and continues tiredly, "I feel like I can't — I can't  _catch up_. I feel like I can't catch up with being  _Peter_ , and I can't catch up being  _Spider-Man_. The idea of getting in my suit and going out into Queens makes me feel sick, but I have to. I have to, because that's my responsibility, and I — everyone here is so  _far ahead_  in helping fix things, and I feel like I'm  _drowning_ in it. I don't feel like I can defend anyone. I don't feel like I can just carry on and go to therapy and try to be better, because I couldn't even do anything to save the person who helped me  _get_ here. And why to do I deserve to live if Gamora's still gone? Why  _me_?"  
  
It's a flood of honesty, and she feels a sliver of Peter's weight pressing on her own shoulders when he looks at her and tells her all this.  
  
But they aren't all things she's never heard before, either. If Peter just sat down and told Tony about all this, he'd feel so much less alone.  
  
But she knows why Peter is scared to talk to Tony. Or to May.   
  
Or to anyone else he feels might rely on him and his once steadfast and enduring nature.  
  
One thing must be addressed, first and foremost.  
  
"You deserve to be here as much as any of us, Peter."  
  
This 'Gamora' would agree, surely.  
  
"I don't deserve all this," he says, "People took care of me for six months.  _Six whole months_. I don't deserve some chair in the kitchen, and I don't deserve all these nice text messages, or these pamphlets, or the presents May wants me to open at home. Everyone made sure I was safe and healthy for six months, and I couldn't do a single thing to protect the  _only_ friend I had in that place...!"  
  
"Peter," she cuts in, before he can spiral into this dark place any further. He looks at her, alarmed, as if he hadn't noticed how far his mouth had gone without him. When she motions for him to come over at last, he crawls over without delay and not daring knock over the skyscraper he'd built back up. He seems like he's sure what she's going for, and that's alright — she just tugs him over by her side and puts one arm around his shoulders as they sit. He breathes with some uneasiness as she talks. "You have so much going on inside. And I'll tell you what I told Tony: you can't leave it in there. I won't tell you how to get it all out or who needs to be the one who hears it, but I will say you have to. The only rule to it is doing it safely, and making sure you're alright in the end. We're all messed up rooms; it's just a matter of finding the right way to fix the crooked pictures and broken chairs."  
  
Peter nods with eyes fluttering closed.   
  
"Don't close yourself off," she murmurs. " _Please_ , if anything... if all else fails — don't close yourself off. We like you out in the open, with us."  
  
"... What if I can't be what I was before? What if it's all changed forever? What if I'm just messed up?"  
  
" _Everything_ changes — for better and for worse, every day, every lifetime... We all just have to decide how to navigate it."  
  
He nods, letting her embrace him still.  
  
"What can I  _do_? What should I  _do_?"  
  
She thinks about it for a long moment as the two of them sit among discarded dolls and messy portraits of heroes.   
  
Spider-Man is a blue and red splatter in a lot of them. Tony made sure of it.  
  
"Well... You fixed a kid's toy tower. I think... that's an excellent start."

* * *

  
The nighttime air is cooled, especially when sitting under the big whole in the ceiling. Bucky finds himself particularly at peace when he can just find a wall and find some to enjoy the view of a whole moon; the sky in Wakanda was a hell of a sight, a little more inspiring than the city's near invisible swathe of stars, but this is home. This is New York City, a place where memories seem to resurface every moment he lingers in its rocking arms. He expects Rocket to pop out from his late-night work on the  _Benatar_ , or maybe Steve to linger around and even now continue to pester him about how he's doing — but instead he gets Peter walking out, looking lost and blank and —  
  
And for a moment, he's worried. The kid was going to go back home with May tomorrow, but he looks alarmingly close to how he looked when he used to walk him to the bathroom, or back to his room for some much needed sleep. He starts moving to stand, eyes rounded with some worry behind his long and intrusive bangs. " _Kid_?"  
  
"Mr. Barnes?" Peter says, breaking the illusion. The soldier relaxes a fraction, the rhythm of heart beat slowing and steadying.  
  
"What're you doing out of your bed? Does May know you're wandering again?"  
  
"I told her I needed to walk a little," he says. "Um. I — I'd like to talk... to you. If it's alright. About... some things."  
  
He sits back against the wall, slowly. The gloomy but serene blue from the moon's luminescence leaves sharp shadows on Peter's usually rounded and youthful face, and it occurs to him then that Peter is waiting with bated breath, like he's not sure if he'll be turned away or not.  
  
Bucky just rests his arm over his knee and gets comfortable.   
  
"... Sure, Peter. Let's talk."  
  
The boy finds a place to sit beside his fellow soldier.  
  
"I'm—" Peter starts, "—not fine."   
  
That's a damn good start.


	19. Chapter 19

Talking with Bucky leads to talking to Steve, really. Peter hadn't even  _meant_ for it to be that way; it was just... Captain America, despite their rough patches in Germany and what followed, had been a sort of idol to him. Maybe not in the same way that Iron Man is (because how do you top someone who saved your life when you were little?) but still someone he looks up to. Maybe that was a silly reason not to expose your vulnerabilities to someone who'd entirely understand you, but it was and is his thought process. However, between telling Bucky how the night sky scares him and how sometimes he doesn't feel  _real_ , Mr. Rogers shows up with a bunch of doughnuts from his favorite liquor store downstate. And then it becomes a night of him slowly and nervously spilling his guts about everything. He's still scared — like, all the time, but it's not like a primal fear; it's a weird gnawing one, the kind that makes you hover mid-step and sends you walking away from everything.  
  
That was something Bucky related to a lot, he finds out. Mr. Rogers says that sometimes he doesn't feel like he's really in this time on occasion, like he's just dreaming in his bunk somewhere. They say it so  _bluntly_ , without  _doubt_ or  _hesitancy_. It leaves him reeling a little. By the time he starts his way back to his hospital room for some important sleep, May's texted him a few times in concern — all quickly replied back to, of course, because he doesn't want to cause her anymore pain than he already has. He asks if they can do this again before he goes, maybe. They don't stutter on the 'of course, kid'.

It leaves him feeling... better? He thinks? Or at least not like he's drowning in his own body.

He still has a hard time sleeping, though.   
  
He lays awake after pretending to sleep so May would go to bed, first. Then he stares at his ceiling with dread deep in his bones like the night before. Humans are kind of ridiculous, aren't they? They need to sleep to survive, or they'll die sooner or later; in the 60's there was this high school kid who tested the world record for longest time awake, and he ended up hallucinating, having memory problems, speech problems — all that jazz. Yeah, human brains need sleep to perform. And yet the human brain also assaults itself with nightmares. How backwards is that? How screwed up is evolution? And don't even get Peter started on the one hole used for breathing is also conveniently the same hole used for eating. It's like nature  _wanted_ everything to choke to death.  
  
Anyway, he hardly sleeps. Sleeping reminds him of the dark he'd drifted through. Sleep reminds him of another side he can't get to, despite being its hostage for years. When he wakes up, it's from a groggy half-sleep that leaves him feeling drained and less than eager to meet the day. May leaves him to rest up in bed and gives him the okay to not move a muscle if he so chooses until she's back from work, but Happy is the one who forces him to get up and get dressed. "You're  _really_ going to skip out on a lunch date with Michelle Jones? Are you  _nuts_? She'll kill us  _all_."  
  
He'd almost forgotten. And he feels instantly guilty that his tired never-ending loop of issues had nearly pushed his friend to the back of his everything. She'd only just barely gotten back to New York after visiting relatives, so they'd been texting on Peter's fancy new Stark phone (the other had been, to Peter's devastation, lost forever; he had  _voicemails_ saved on that damned phone, and it almost makes him wanna cry), so it wasn't like it was his first contact with her, but it was sparse. Awkward. Incomplete.

Happy nudges Peter to get to his stool, still labeled for him much to his embarrassment in front of the other Avengers. Pepper serves him some pancakes. Nat — she told him Nat is fine — sits beside him and seems to be watching him in her periphery. He gets through half a flapjack and a few bites of hashbrown, much to Bruce's concern as he's sipping hot coffee.  "You know, I took that tube out because you  _could_ eat again. I don't have to put it back later because you stop, do I?"  
  
"M'sorry, Dr. Banner. I just have a meeting with my — um, my old friend today. I'm just nervous."  
  
"Oh, that's good; it's important to get back out there, kid," Rhodes says with a nod. "You gotta be sick of that hospital room by now."  
  
"Oh, I am. I really am," he groans.  
  
But really, the outside world still seems so terrifying. He'd spent so long trying to see just _this_ place with clear eyes — he'd stopped even considering the city that waited for him beyond this facility. But it waited all the same, and so did MJ, even if he didn't deserve to interrupt her life with the newly risen ghost of him. So he walks into one of the community bathrooms and changes into some clothes that May had brought him: an old sweater, dragged over one of those science pun shirts he won at a science fair raffle. He laced up some new sneakers conveniently left in his room and brushed his hair the way he liked it, concealing childish curls and making him feel a little more like the Peter Benjamin Parker who boarded a bus for a field trip in 2018.  
  
The drive is in the back of one of Happy's cars, because the man refused to let him get there any other way — "not going by yourself, not on my watch", quote, unquote. Some of his panic eases the longer they drive, and once they pass Mr. Delmar's re-opened bodega Peter manages a fond smile. They pull up to the cafe with his hands sweaty and his stomach is in knots regardless, and before he can utter a hoarse request to turn back and tell MJ he's just not feeling well, he's practically booted out of the car.  
  
"Pete," Happy says from the driver's window. "I know you can do this. Alright? And if you really, really can't — I'll be around the corner, just over there. But I'm not gonna let you _not_ try, because that's how you end up in an apartment with thirty cats and agoraphobia, ordering another pizza three nights in a row and wondering where your life went."  
  
"That's — That's _oddly_ specific and _dramatic_ , but thanks."  
  
_Alright. Alright, fine. I don't want thirty cats. I don't want to have nightmares about the vastness of screaming souls._  
  
He forces one foot in front of the other. It's a really nice little place, with rows of fresh flowers lining the iron cross-hatched windows; he's not sure if there's really a Delilah as an owner or it's just a cute little namesake, but the sign definitely needs a new paint job. It smells like coffee and some mysterious fragrance on the inside, which eases his shoulders a fraction. He checks his watch — 12:00 p.m., on the dot. MJ's usually super punctual, especially when she's got a time specifically picked of her own accord, but he doesn't see her yet as he scans around the room with owlish eyes. "Okay, Peter. It's okay. You're okay. It's just—"  
  
His voice sticks in his throat, as he rounds the corner to the rest of the tables and chairs. There she is, sitting patiently with her fingers laced together in front of her as she studies something outside the window. Sunlight floods in just right, leaving just the perfect picture of the girl he'd started falling in love with years ago; unlike Ned, who had decided to buzz his hair short and trade T-shirts for button-ups, MJ looks stunningly unchanged ( _and why would she be changed that much to cause concern? it's been two years, peter, get a grip_ ). Under her hands is a book, unsurprisingly, tented in half with its words pressed against the aged wooden counter. His sharper, inhuman vision picks up a title on the spine when she shifts her hands away —  _How to Survive the End of the World (When It’s All in Your Head)_.   
  
It pulls a laugh out of him, soft but enough to completely shift the scene as she turns to look at him.   
  
She stares. He stares back. He clears his throat and tries to remember English.  
  
"Whatcha — whatcha' lookin' at?" is all he can drum up.   
  
"... Someone scratched a tiny dick on the window," she replies.  
  
She hasn't changed even a little bit, and a smile pulls at his lips like a sail dropping on a ship's mast, carrying him towards the small table. She stands to meet him with something difficult to read in her eyes, just before she hooks her arms around him and pulls him close. There's no crying, though he feels like he might, and there's a heavy silence in the underused section of the cafe that leaves them in their own little world. MJ doesn't let him go for a while, not until the _tick-tick-tick_ of her watch continues on for a good sixty clicks. Then she motions for him to sit. He doesn't run out screaming for Happy to take him away, no — he just takes a seat and sits in the sunshine with her, as conversation pours out of them. They talk about how MJ's family has been coping, about what Midtown Tech was like the year before the last, about these couple of political protests she'd been to now that the government was kind of still in  _fuck-me-up-fam_  mode.   
  
Usual MJ stuff. It feels so incredibly  _normal_.   
  
Even the way he has to sneak around the topic of Avengers, or why he took an extra six months to come back.  
  
"... So you're doing art school, right?" He jabs a thumb over his shoulder. "That really fancy one they converted from a hospital not that long ago?"  
  
"Oh, yeah — I mean, mom wanted me to do something with the science and math angle, but after half your family and friends go poof and life as you know it is utterly devastated, you get to pick things the folks usually wouldn't go for." Usually, topics of such somber stuff leaves Peter icy inside, lost for words, but the way MJ talks about it always seems to settle the uncomfortable plume of bad air that would have followed. "Anyway... You're alive again. Congratulations."  
  
"Thanks, it's  _super_ swell."  
  
"It is," she says more softly, smiling. He smiles back with a throbbing heart. "So — what're you gonna do now, smarty pants?"  
  
"Umm... I'm not... really sure? I guess go back and finish high school. I'm back at Aunt May's tomorrow officially, and I'll probably need to figure out how... birthdays and stuff work. Am I nineteen-going-on-twenty now? Or am I seventeen still? It's not like I've aged since I died, but now when I tell people I was born in 2001 they're gonna get all sorts of confused. But I guess  _everyone's_ had to adapt to that, right?"  
  
"Oh,  _yeah_ , it's a  _shitshow_. You're gonna just have to get used to telling people you're missing some years."  
  
He huffs a laugh, scraping his spoon along a plate where a lemon meringue pie slice used to be.  
  
"... I don't really  _feel_ like I'm seventeen."  
  
"Because you remember the other side of it. The place full of souls, you said."  
  
He nods slowly, the sound of his metal spoon against uneven glass drawing him from the world. Everything's so loud — the colors, the smells, the way car horns blare or the _tick-tick-tick_ of her wristwatch... Sometimes it's so much. He misses the soft winds that blew through the soul world, through his and Gamora's oasis, away from inky black starscapes which housed the glimmering lights of the dead. Looking at her, he can't help but say the first thing that comes to him, caught in a sad daze. "MJ... I just... You know — I loved you. Um. I loved you like..."  
  
"I know," she says, watching him patiently. The spoon bends a little under the pressure behind his pale fingers. She reaches out, stops his hand, and plucks the spoon away. "I loved you, too."

"I was gonna ask you to prom," he says miserably.  
  
"I was gonna ask you, too," she replies, with a nod.  
  
"... I wish I could've been there with you."  
  
"You're here with me now," she murmurs, appeased. "And even when you weren't, you were."  
  
"... The thing is... I  _can't_ stay here. Not yet." He looks up finally, meeting her eyes. "MJ, I — I know what I have to do. To make it all hurt a little less. To feel like I can keep  _going_ , and stop... being so  _afraid_. It's gonna take me kinda far away from here for a little bit, though, and I just... don't want to hurt anyone who's waiting for me to catch up. I don't wanna hurt Aunt May anymore than I already have, leaving her all  _alone_ again... She doesn't deserve that. She deserves to have me here if she wants me here, but I also..."  
  
He huffs in frustration. MJ cups her hand over his as they shake.  _Dammit,_  he thinks.  _Dammit,_ he's not sure why this is messing him up so much now.  
  
"This whole _obligation_ thing you're feeling... Does this have anything to do with being Spider-Man?"  
  
He looks up sharply, his breath caught. "You—"  
  
She looks absolutely exasperated. " _Peter_ , if you honestly thought I didn't figure it out by the end of sophomore year, you're a moron. I  _practically_ stalked you and Ned that entire year, and you're the literal worst at keeping your mouths shut. The sneaking out of classes? The shitty excuses for skipping out on things? The rushed texts? Or how you'd magically vanish around dumpsters? C'mon. I didn't need to be Sherlock Holmes to solve the mystery."  
  
_It was Spider-Man, in the alleyway, with the candlestick._

He almost laughs at how ridiculous it is, that he was surprised. "It's not just a hero thing. But yeah, he's involved. Him and Peter Parker. They've both got an obligation. Far from home."

She licks her lips, letting him sit in his awe for a little bit before patting the back of his hand.  
  
"Well,  _Spider-Man_... if  _whatever_ it is you have to do brings you back to May and the rest of us in one piece and all the better for it, then you need to do it, right?"  
  
"Y-yeah, well... my brain's been warring with me on it, so I..."  
  
She reaches over the small table, gritting her knuckle across the  _thump-thumping_ sound in his chest.  
  
"But what is your  _heart_ telling you?"  
  
He smiles tiredly at her. "That I have to do this."  
  
She leans in more fully and presses her lips gently against his brow, his eyes fluttering closed from the softness of the gesture. It's not  _romantic_ , not exactly. It's love, and it's warm, and it's a bond, and it's not yet molded into anything with a label yet. It's a frozen teenaged romance, one that never got to grow beyond that small bud on the tree — something that may  _never_ be. Or may be something, someday, somewhere, in the maze-like streets of New York City. Or maybe it'll be someone else for her. Someone who isn't Peter. And maybe it'll be someone else for him, someone who isn't her. And that would be okay. That would be fine, as long as she was alive and happy and reminding him of what it was he protected — _protects_ — here.  
  
But he likes the softness of her lips against his brow, and the rare but earnest kindness that sometimes edges her usually dry voice, and how her hair falls in her face as she draws. He used to talk about all those little things with Gamora, and she'd just smirk at him like she knew exactly what was pulsing through his adolescent heart. "When I come back, and — and if you're still here and... I mean, if you're still..."  
  
She puts her whole palm over his mouth, rolling her eyes.

"I'll be around, when you get back. And even if we end up doing our own thing and finding other people we're into, I'll always be there for you, you loser... Me and Ned, we're yours for life."

He watches her with adoring eyes, some measure of peace in his expression.  
  
Then it's settled. 


	20. Chapter 20

It's really weird to be back in his room again. It doesn't even feel like it's his at first; it's more like a little stage in a museum that shows off a fraction of history he had lived through. It offers him a detached fascination of a period where things were so much simpler and grounded. That was back when getting his suit taken from him was devastating. That was back when getting a building dropped on his head was traumatic and not just another Friday. He had sat down with a shocked May here years ago, her in his rolling chair and him on his bed, still dressed up as Spider-Man, and told her who he was. This is where he'd stumbled in past curfew once, covered in oozing wounds from a glass window in an abandoned warehouse he'd fallen through, and she grounded him for a full two weeks in a hysterical panic. 

He always worries her. It's not fair to her; she didn't ask for this. She didn't ask for him.

And yet she's always there to make things better — to be a mother and father and aunt and uncle.

He knew going in that there would be abandoned presents on his desk, but seeing them clearly and in person again chokes him up a little. He wishes she hadn't done it, hadn't tormented herself with the task of finding things he'd find dear to him, of dressing them up in colorful wrapping paper - and then, waiting, and waiting, and  _waiting_. She stands twiddling her thumbs in the doorway with a pleased expression on her face, like she's waiting for a verdict. He just looks back with a little sad frown. "May, I..."

"I know, I know. It's kind of crazy."

"No, no, I just. I wish you didn't have to do that to yourself."

"I never gave up on your Avengers," she admits, voice quiet. "There were a lot of times I wanted to, because it all seemed so  _impossible_ to fix and it's not healthy to cling to  _impossibles_ , but I knew  _you_ wouldn't have — so I didn't. And I knew when you got back, there would be a lot that you missed. A lot you didn't  _deserve_ to miss. So... Whenever you're ready, you can open those... any time you'd like. With or without me around. Judgement-free zone." 

At that he picks up the one in the very back, labeled 'Christmas 2019'. His heart pangs with guilt, but he holds it against his chest. 

He says, "Just one, you and me."

Her and him, like it's always been.

... He can't hurt her like this. He can't take away what she's only just gotten back. It's not fair.

_But when has life ever been totally fair to them? To her?_

He peels back the wrapping paper — a silly pattern of comic book sound effects bound in red twine — and runs his hand along the smooth surface of a intermediate robotics building set. A hundred-plus pieces, probably costing an pretty penny; maybe with one less mouth to feed, it was easier to afford, but the likely cost of it makes his eyes grow wide with wonder. "This is...  _awesome_."

May grins behind her hand, masking a trembling mouth. It can't be easy, but he hopes it at least makes her feel good. Makes her feel like everything'll be  _okay_. Because it is gonna be okay; he'll make sure of it, for her and for everyone else involved in his life. "I'm glad you like it. I want you to make something cool, alright? Preferably... something that doesn't catch fire, like the last one?" And to that, he laughs, but he can't help but feel a pit of despair deepen in his gut.

He can't hurt her like this, he thinks again. And yet he knows he's going to. 

Tracing the logo with his fingers, he nods. 

"Yeah, I will. No catching fire. Promise."

The other presents will wait, just for a little while longer. While she's in the room next door, he packs a few things up in his old gym bag, just in case things actually go smoothly tonight. It's just a precaution, something he nudges into his closet with his foot. Ned shows up just in time for dinner at the apartment like clockwork, bringing chocolate chip cookies his mother baked (she's an amazing baker), and hugging Peter for a good two minutes before he had to laugh and start prying him off. "May, I think you need to get the jaws of life."

They eat so many cookies he nearly pukes, and watch a couple of oldies-but-goodies together huddled on the couch. Ned ends up nodding off against his shoulder while May wanders off to clean up the kitchen, the two boys basked in the glow of a typical Saturday night. It's nice. It's really  _genuinely_ nice, and the most relaxed he's gotten since gasping awake that desperate, cinder-filled night at headquarters. The easy and lulling feeling won't last too long, just like it hasn't all the other times, but that doesn't matter. What matters is taking in the moment now, so that when things hurt all over again, he'll have a memory on hand that tells him there are things worth enduring the worst of it for. 

 "Pssst, Ned." He nudges him. "You can take top bunk, dude."

 "Nnnnoooo, I'm still up," Ned mumbles. 

He huffs, pinching his friend's cheek with immeasurable fondness and knowing it'll do nothing to rouse him. The table are turned; he has to direct the half-asleep college boy to his bedroom this time, instead of Ned directing a husk of a friend to a bathroom or kitchen table. Peter figures it's impossible to get Ned up the ladder without totally slapping him wide awake or risk him falling right off the rungs, so he ushers him to take the bottom mattress instead. He can just sleep on the couch anyway, especially since he's not  _remotely_ ready for sleep. 

As Ned's head hits the pillow, his hand reaches out and grabs for Pete's sleeve, tugging.

 "Don't leave again," he mumbles. 

 But Ned's eyes are shut with a light and easy sleep now, and he says nothing further. 

 Peter tucks him in carefully.

 

* * *

 

The VHS is old, the label peeling and worn. Peter rubs a thumb along where his uncle had haphazardly scribbled the title in blocky and proud capital letters with a green sharpie marker; he's lost track of how many times he's watched this, especially when he was younger and more impressionable, and now that he's sitting in the apartment again he can't help but hover towards it like its a reminder. May had a whole stack of family videos, some DVDs, some VHS, still sitting out on the coffee table. It ached to think of her viewing all these on her own, losing herself to memories of the dead and gone. Peter included.

 He slides the tape into the player, hits play with an unnecessary mindfulness. 

The screen says  _RISE OF THE ALIENS_  in some generic font.

And then announces proudly in even more boisterous font:  _A FILM BY BENJAMIN PARKER_.

It's a pretty funny homemade movie, and uncle Ben's always been pretty on the nose about how terrible his production values were back when he was seventeen and broke as a joke. But when Peter was little, he thought it was the most amazing thing he'd ever watched. There's a funny narrator he learns was grandpa, who was clearly reading off some kind of script,  detailing the dramatic adventures of two space travelers from the 1980's stopping an invasion of their little sunny neighborhood in Queens. There's a hell of a lot of cardboard, lots of plastic water-guns painted to look silvery and dangerous, and a cameo from an assortment of strings that hold up miniature spaceships. 

Peter thinks Quill might get a kick out of it. 

His expression perks at the entrance of Richard Parker, looking no older than thirteen or fourteen: the little adoring brother back then, the kind that would follow his sibling into any kind of trouble... such as making thirty minute adventures around painted backdrops and traversing alien worlds. It's some of the few clips of his father as a kid there is; they look so alike, it's almost as if Peter Parker had traveled back in time to wreck havoc on the city streets and grow out an embarrassing mullet. May used to point out that they had the same ears, had told Peter that no matter how  _goofy_ kids said he looked when he was ten, eleven, that he was a spitting image of Rich, and that he'd be a lady-killer by the time he was twenty.

_'Captain, look out!'_ his dad calls out, aiming his blaster, which looks like something purchased from the local dollar store. It twinkles with red light when he fires, and one of their childhood friends, slathered in green face paint, falls to the ground with a gargled and dramatic yell. Ben grins in a fuzzy shot that is streamed with the hues of a setting sun. They've just defeated the big bad — tore the head right off the dummy. Neither of them know they'll die young someday. That's the thing about those Parker boys; they just go quick, don't they? Peter had been the next to go, to keep up tradition. Age seventeen. 

But he's back, and the world keeps spinning, and he still has these wonderful video cassettes made by people who loved him, people just enjoying their days to the fullest. Fighting aliens in their parent's garages. Living in the  _moment_. Peter leans in a little closer and settles his chin on his knees, feeling nine again as he grins at the credits, all some combination of the Parker surname. In perfect timing, May emerges from the bathroom fresh and dressed for bed, looking at ease in his company. "Hey, whatcha' watching? Some of Ben's greatest hits?"

Peter turns and pulls himself up onto the couch, smiling a little. " _Rise of the Aliens_."

"Oh, that's the one where they save their block from the big-headed green ones?  _God_ , he was so addicted to those Alien movies."

 "I know, he traumatized the heck out of me the first time I saw them."

 Ben had always been eager to share his movie collection with Peter. When he was little — like really,  _really_ little, to the point where it's all foggy memory now — he remembers having gotten a giant Darth Vader for his birthday that was even taller than him. He doesn't remember what his dad had told Ben, but he  _does_ remember Ben replying very confidently  _'yeah, he's the bad guy, but he looks cool'_. When his parents passed away the year after, Peter had spent the first few months despondent and hard to tame... but he  _always_ behaved when Ben hit play on the DVD player, and  _always_ fell asleep to the patient symphony of his uncle explaining all the special effects and camera tricks.

 "He took me to Alien: Resurrection as a first date," May laughs, as she wraps her hair up into a loose bun. "I'll tell you, he wasn't the king of sweeping a lady off her feet, but he was smart and he knew his movies. And I was pretty weird, too, so it worked out."

 "I like weird. The weirder the better."

 She winks. "A true Parker." 

 The quiet becomes routine as she wanders, washing dishes and straightening up the room. Usually he gets up and helps with laundry or something else that needs tending to, but tonight he sits very still and steels himself, reminded of the gym bag sitting expectantly in his closet. Almost calling to him, reminding him of things left unfinished. May speaks up from behind the couch, sounding at ease, "Are you going to be okay going back into the middle of the school year? If you need any tutors or anything, I've got a little money put back, but I know you catch on to things so quickly—"

 "May, I'm — not going back to school yet."

 She looks up, putting down the rag she'd been wiping down the counter with and moving to go join him on the couch. "Oh... That's fine, Peter. That — that's really okay." She reaches up and rubs a thumb across his cheek. Her smile is full of love and patience. He feels a little sick at that. "I know it's been a lot for you, so you just take the time you need to get back up to speed, alright?"

 Silence follows. 

 Her smile relaxes at his guilty stare, the air around them curdled into something solemn. His hand reaches to grip hers.

  _'But what is your heart telling you?'_  MJ had asked him.

 There's no misinterpretation here. 

 "... May, I'm going with the Guardians for a little while." 

May looks stunned at first, and then too literally sick, turning her head away and holding up a hand to stop the conversation. She can barely speak at first, but when she does, it's livid and full of panic, and she can barely even look him in the eye (it's not fair to her, it's not fair, he doesn't want to hurt her, but he needs this, he needs it). " _Absolutely not_. No, no  _way_. I will not let you go into space —  _again_! Are you serious right now, Peter Benjamin Parker? You want to go out there where I lost you the first time? No. No way!"

"May,  _May_ — please, listen—!"

"There's nothing to listen to right now, if it's just to convince me to let you go with some strangers on a—"

"They're not strangers!"

"—space ship to  _god knows where_ , doing something  _dangerous_!"

She stands up sharply, and he follows.

 "I need this!" He puts his hands on his chest, voice pitching desperately. "You gotta understand, I can't  _sleep_. I can barely  _eat_. I can't even think of going to school, or laying in my own bed, or wearing the suit. I feel like I'm getting more and more numb to everything important, the longer I avoid it." She walks into the kitchen to escape the reality of the conversation, and he follows in her footfalls. "I know what I  _need_ to do, and what I need to do is face it all — face it all and, and be there for Gamora, for better or worse. Whether she can come back or not, I have to be there to see it through. I  _swore_ I would."

 He told her enough about his friend from the other realm. "Do you really think she would want you to endanger yourself? Did any of these people stop you from getting killed the first time?! Did any of them protect you!?"

"May, it was always gonna be that way," he utters. "You can't blame them for what Thanos did. I would've died here or there."

 She presses her fingers to her temples, pained. Her voice struggles to stay above the surface of whatever storm is brewing in her head. "Peter, this is crazy. You're  _seventeen_. You're a child —  _my_ child — and it's, it's my job to protect you. And that means I  _cannot_ and  _will not_ let you do this." She seems like she's going to go on further, but Peter reaches out to collect one of her hands in his. They stand there, arms hanging as fingers interlace, and the air around them cools.

 "... I'm not seventeen, May. I'm — not a kid anymore," he says, very softly. "And... you  _have_ protected me. For such a long time, you've been taking care of me, but now it's time for me to do this on my own. It'll only be a little while. I'll only be gone a month, maybe two. Maybe even less, if they can find the right entry points to Vormir. And you can trust them to get me back, okay? You  _can_. And when I come back... I can start again. I can be okay again."

May looks shaken by everything he says. 

"I was supposed to protect you. I'm supposed to protect you. I can't sit in this empty apartment again."

"You won't. I'll make sure you won't."

"I don't want them, I want my _family_! I want you here with me, in our _home_."

" _Please_ ," he whispers. "I dream about it. I have these nightmares, and it's so  _hard_ , I just..." He knows she wants to do what's best for him. She knows he's being earnest in his fear, and in his deadset focus to do this. But nothing is that simple. Loving someone, keeping them safe, facing loneliness... it's just not that easy. He squeezes her hand, the gesture pleading as she stands with him and her warring thoughts. "Please, May.  _Please_. Trust me."

 "... I'm sorry, Peter. But I — I — "

 She swallows, turns, and rushes away into the darkness of her room.

 Peter slowly sits down and presses his face into his hands. 

He stays that way for a while.

If he's honest with himself, he didn't expect it to go any other way... but it doesn't make it hurt less. His sharpened hearing picks up the attempts at stifling heartbroken sobs, and a sort of powerlessness permeates around him, the same kind that tormented him under tons of broken concrete, or when he was hooked against Tony Stark and crumbling like gritty sand, billions of light-years away.

 Sleep (or really, the severe lack of it the last 48 hours) eventually tugs at him against his will to lay his head down on the sofa; he's not sure of the exact moment that he ends up sprawled across the warm cushions, and he's also not sure when a pillow from his bedroom is tucked under his head, but he does absently feel the soft, almost breathy, touch of a blanket as it drapes over him. He stirs along enough to see May pacing near the television, biting her thumbnail and looking devastated and lost at sea in her own living room. 

  _I'm sorry,_  he tries to say, but his eyelashes flutter and he drifts away against his will.

Behind his eyelids, he sees distorted facsimiles of the souls lost to time and space. 

They taunt him, and dare Spider-Man to cast his web, knowing it will never find purchase.

He aims and shoots, anyway.


	21. Chapter 21

Bruce and Tony are at some convention talking about what to do with the abandoned alien technology left on their front lawn, and Steve and Sam are helping with special programs dedicated to jump-starting support for people who aren't coping well with resurrecting, down in Harlem. There are still an annoying assortment of construction workers ruining an otherwise pleasant foyer when Natasha forgoes them all and takes note of the black car pulling up to the half-mended facility. Peter Parker steps out of the back mid-conversation with Happy, dressed in some old jacket and cuffed pants, looking like the usual high school kid from the neck down. She can see a weariness in the lines of his face though, his smile too forced to be anything good.   
  
Happy's gone just as quickly on business and leaves the boy to Nat's cold and calculating regime back in the lounge area — that is, she had only come out from a poker game to make sure someone was there for Peter, when he was dropped off. He had texted her early in the morning to let her know things hadn't gone too well with telling May his plan, the plan in which he had only told  _her_ about so far; she's not sure why he turned to her, to tell her what he needed to do, but she appreciates it all the same.  
  
Ned took it a little better, but only a little, and so she's not surprised that he looks in dour spirits.  
  
"Rough time at the apartment?" she asks, arms crossed.  
  
"... Yeah... I'm just gonna — give it time." He walks in tandem with her. "She texted me that she loved me when I said I'd be hanging out here for a little bit today, so — she doesn't hate me totally. That's good, right?"  
  
Natasha rolls her eyes, but there's no heat to it.   
  
"Peter, your aunt isn't going to  _hate_ you for anything. That woman can only love you unconditionally; that much is obvious." May Parker was a force in this place, not remotely afraid to stand toe-to-toe with any of the other Avengers in the facility. She'd loomed and lingered, and if anyone even so much as breathed negatively in Peter's direction she would have taken them out like a professional hit man (perhaps a bit too extreme of a comparison, but you could never underestimate a mother figure like that). Peter seems a bit at ease when she speaks, his shoes scuffling a little less dejectedly.  
  
"... I know. I'm just... sad that I hurt her."  
  
"Good, then that proves you're human." Peter walks toward the lounge area, but Natasha reaches out and pinches his sleeve to tug him to the immediate left. At his puzzled glance, she says, "C'mon, don't go sulking somewhere. How good is your pokerface?"  
  
"My what?"  
  
She shrugs and frowns like a sturgeon. "That bodes poorly for you in the long haul."  
  
The room is smaller and used to be some kind of living quarters, but it's been temporarily altered into some kind of gaming area by Clint himself in a moment of desperation. There's a folding metal table covered in poker chips and cards and drinks (that Peter is definitely not old enough to partake in), and there sit the knights of the square table — Clint's scrolling through his phone as he waits for the game to pick back up. And Thor is chattering eagerly at Rhodes about how disgusting it is to be nearly digested by some creature with a long-winded name.  
  
"Heyyyy, kid," Clint says with a little smile. "Are you a gambling man?"  
  
"I... played a little before?" He looks like he's unsure what's even going on, and Natasha just elbows him a bit from behind as she finds her seat. She figures it only seems right, to take his mind off the cloud brewing around his head. And if he does end up leaving — it would at least be better that he leaves with some pleasant memories with comrades, right? Rhodes expertly shuffles the deck and Thor offers Peter a friendly and kind smile; it's like putting the dog with the pup, and Peter can't seem to stop himself from smiling back.  
  
"Worry not, Parker — it's a particularly new game to me, though we've had our share of interesting card games in Asgard as well." Natasha is happy to see there's no flash of something dark and miserable in Thor's mix-matched eyes when he says it; he genuinely seems fond, if not a bit wistful at the lost world he'd hailed from. "You can hardly fair any worse than I am; Barton's nearly wiped us all clean of our earnings."  
  
"What can I say? I'm a prodigy," Clint sighs dramatically.   
  
"He's been extremely  _lucky_ ," Rhodes says, with an accusatory finger pointed Clint's way. "I'm  _getting_ those chips back."  
  
"Not if I sneak it all from under your noses first," Natasha adds, sliding into her chair. The way she has to tug on Peter's pant leg from under the table reminds her all too much of when the boy had been a walking coma patient, but then he's jump-started back to life by her gesture and moves to take up the fifth seat. He is as awkward as ever, like a teenager sitting on the outskirts of a school dance, but she's happy to see him slowly loosen up and start up some harmless chatter.   
  
"How is your aunt, may I ask?" Thor says. "We speak quite a lot off and on. If I actually bothered with a Midgardian phone, I would have gotten her number by now, but you know how it is. Poor reception in the confines of space and time."  
  
"She's good, she's fine," Peter replies. "Just... getting back into the swing of things."  
  
"Are  _you_ getting back into the swing of things?" Rhodes asks, perking one brow.  
  
"Uh — oh.  _Heh_. No, not yet. Just taking it easy the last week."  
  
"I still can't believe you're  _Spider-Man_ ," Clint huffs, eyeing his cards. "The kid who whooped Sam and Buck  _and_ Scott. You were all over New York, too. Right? Pretty  _busy_ for a little rugrat."  
  
"Yeah, while you were practicing poker in your hen nest, I was getting the  _real_ work done."  
  
Rhodes gasps dramatically behind a palm as Thor applauds, throwing his head back for a rich and thunderous laugh. Everyone's a little tipsy save for Parker by the end of it all, and as planned, Natasha's sliding all the plastic coins over to her side of the table once everyone else is poised for a brutal loss, ignoring the boos from the archer while kicking at him from under the table. Peter's  _really_ no good at poker, Nat's decided — he sticks his tongue out at the corner of his mouth when he's trying to decide what to do with a bad hand, and he always avoids eye contact when he's got something juicy. In the end, the kid walks away with one poker chip, which he tucks into his pants pocket.  
  
Natasha joins him as he waits for Pepper and Morgan to get back.  
  
"I should  _probably_ stick to chess," he chuckles. He watches out the window where the  _Benatar_ is parked and slightly disassembled. Neither of them can hear what's being said, but it's clear Rocket and Drax are five steps away from a likely ridiculous fisticuff before Quill steps his away between them, wagging his wrench. She wonders if this 'Gamora' kept them more in line, but then again — families tend to fight, and she had little doubt that they weren't exactly that.  
  
"I'm sure they'd all love you to drop in for more practice." She raises her brows at Peter, observing him like he's a mark, gathering as much as she can from his hands, his face, his posture. "You could get better with time... You have that, you know. Time."  
  
"I know," he says softly, hands in his pockets. They're quiet for a long moment, simply taking in the activity around them. The facility was broken apart and faced hefty work even with all the fixing so far, that much was true... but Natasha could see a  _profound_ shift in this place, the last six months. This is the most any of them had managed to get along, as strange as that is. People usually expect teams to work well with each other; in all honestly, they only serve to be progressively more dysfunctional with time. That's what she's always seen, in her short but full life thus far: teams falling apart at the seams. But here they all are after everything, still moving forward, still caring deeply for each other. She can't say it's been the worst road traveled, even with Thaddeus Ross pecking at them.  
  
"Hey, Nat?" Peter says, with some hesitancy. She looks at him as he shrugs helplessly, though he doesn't look quite so worried or tired as he had a few hours ago. "I just wanted to thank you. For not treating me like... I don't know. I just mean... this was one of the first times I got to hang out like nothing was wrong. I know everyone's just trying to help, but I'm really happy I got to hang out for a little bit, like I'm... normal old Peter."  
  
"... Yes, well. I'm not actually that good at pep talks or speeches. And I don't particularly think I'm a good role model to listen to, anyway." She shrugs her shoulders, arms crossed over her chest. "I just wanted to see how bad you were at poker."  
  
When she looks back at his face, she's relieved to find he  _doesn't_ remind her of the girls from the Red Room, with their despondent gazes and obedient, deadly hands. It's foolish to even compare the two circumstances or think Peter would have remotely shifted into such a dark role after his troubles, she _knows_ , but... she has no doubt in her mind, that there's something there she can relate to. She knows what he's talking about — the others, they carefully tiptoe around him and try to preserve something childish and safe that he's already lost in the snap long ago.

And it's not like he isn't shaky and eager and immature in all the ways that endeared him to Stark, but there are indisputable stress fractures now.

He's becoming a man, if he hasn't already.  
  
She looks out the window, sympathy pulsing in her veins. "You'll never be the same person you once were, and that's alright. You're still fighting for good things, Peter. Just don't lose sight of that, and the rest will never shape you into something you're not."  
  
After a considerable pause between them, he says, "Sounds suspiciously like a pep talk."  
  
Her smile spreads wider, despite herself. "What can I say? You bring out the worst in me."  
  
"You're fighting for good things, too," he says. And then smiles a little, maybe smugly. "Like poker chips."  
  
"I'm a  _prodigy_ ," she mocks. Somewhere a chipless Clint is probably feeling the hairs on his neck stand up.  
  
He reaches out and puts a hand on her forearm, a soft symbol of solidarity.   
  
"And hey, thanks for looking out for me, when I was halfway gone." She smirks, patting her fingers over the earnest gesture and seeing just how easy it was for him to slide into the ranks of the Avengers. He leans in a little, brow furrowed, biting his tongue in thought. "... Hey, if I told you May said I could drink  _one_ beer, would you give me one?"  
  
_Perhaps becoming a man a little too fast, Parker._  
  
"Not a  _chance_."  
  
Sure, she drank before he ever did, but that's beside the point.  
  
May Parker is one enemy she's not keen on making.

* * *

  
  
Quill walks the streets of Queens with his eyebrows high on his forehead and a sort of wide-eyed, fixed awe on everything going on around him. Look, it's not like he hasn't been in crazy settings before; New York is  _nothing_ compared to the most seedy places he'd been dragged through in his lifetime as a space wanderer — no offense to NYC. But he also has recollections of Missouri that aren't remotely close to the hustle and bustle going on here. He can only think,  _wow, I really came from a quiet and tiny place in the grand scheme of things._ He tips a decent guitar player with a dollar he stole off the kitchen table back at HQ and stops by the Sanctum to bug Doctor Strange for a hot second, but his _main_ goal is a place down on Queens Boulevard, seven stories up in a beat-up but thriving apartment complex. He'd been surprised when May asked for him specifically — and _without_ Lil' Pete involved. Part of him wonders low-key if she's gonna axe him.  
  
He wouldn't be super  _surprised_ if she tried to axe him? Like, he's been nearly murdered by women more times than years he's been alive.  
  
Gamora kicked his ass when they first met, after all.  
  
He smiles weakly at the thought, his stomach dropping like it always does when she comes flooding back into his mind like a nostalgic fragrance. He's only lucky he's already in the elevator and making his way up to the Parker home, or else he'd just drown in his thoughts and become a moody asshole for the rest of the day once he remembered with striking clarity that she was murdered, alone, without anyone to help her; no, he's got to _focus_ , got to not think about things that feel more and more like everything he cares about gets smashed in front of him, on repeat. Over and over and —  
  
He makes a fist, fingernails biting hard into his flesh, and walks down the hall. Someone is arguing in one of the apartments he passes — something about child support that makes him take a wiiiide step toward the other side of the hallway — and ticks off the numbers until he eventually comes to the right door. Raps on it. Waits. Feels like he's gonna get an axe to the face. But none of that happens when it creaks open May greets him with a heavy stare behind her thick glasses. She breathes in. Steps back to let him in.  
  
"Mr. Quill," she greets.  
  
"Mrs. Parker," he returns.  
  
As he walks into the quiet apartment, he feels the _warmth_ that permeates through it: there are pictures adorning the walls of Pete and his small family, and despite how the amount of people in them seems to shrink and shrink, everyone in them looks happy to be there, to have each other. He knows that May is all Peter has when it comes to a biological family, so he can't help but wonder what became of those in the shot. He's a little impressed at how easy it is to tell who was Peter's father. They're spitting images of each other.  
  
"I wanted to talk to you about Peter," May says, pulling his attention to her.  
  
She's pouring a cup of coffee and slides it over to him ( _hopefully_ not poisoned).   
  
"... Alright..." He sits.  
  
She wastes no time. "Did he come to you recently, about going with you?"  
  
"To Vormir? Yeah. He wanted to be there if—" He stops himself, corrects himself with determined certainty. "... _When_ Gamora's brought back."  
  
"... And are you going to take him?"  
  
"If you mean  _'are you taking him without my permission'_ , then... no." She looks surprised when she looks up at him, and he sounds a touch offended. "C'mon, May. I'm not going to abduct a kid into space from an unwilling family. At the end of the week, whether he likes it or not, if _you're_ not on board, _he's_ not on board. That's my hard line in the sand."   
  
She leans against the counter with her coffee steaming in her hands, and he sips his own quietly as her focus fades away from him and to something else — likely the boy back at the facility, the one who was playing catch with Stark's kid on the lawn when Quill was leaving for a spell. He wonders if May would have preferred him to be more like a Ravager: that he'd just kidnap Peter and leave the choice out of her hands, to give it to Pete wholly, so she wouldn't have to feel like she's holding his safety over some big and dangerous cliff, wondering whether she should let him fall to his death or not. He clears his throat. "We'd protect him, you know. I get that we're a pretty crazy bunch, but we're more capable than we look."  
  
"And you're willing to have him on board."  
  
"Yeah, sure. It's not that much trouble to bring him back."  
  
"And how do I know you'll put his safety over the safety of your own? Over _Gamora_?" His breath catches at how easily she says it, and a cold darkness seeps out inside him, the hand around the coffee mug clenching tightly. Not at her — he's not mad at her. But god, is he mad at everything else. She watches him and his cold fire with a passive patience, and seems to note the way his face drains of emotion. "I'm sorry if I'm overstepping, but if my kid is on board — I will _always_ prioritize him over whatever goal you have in mind. So if your mission is just to get back what's yours at whatever cost... I just... I need to  _know_. That he'll be  _okay_. And that if I... do... agree to this, it won't be the last thing I ever let him do."  
  
She scoffs, looking down at her bare feet before her gaze raises again to meet his with a rigidness that reminds him of someone preparing to rush out into a hopeless battlefield. "Maybe he is an adult now. Maybe this conversation shouldn't even be happening. But I need to  _know_... that he  _will_ be back to New York as soon as possible, so I can worry my ass off about him  _here_ , and not somewhere I can't reach him."  
  
He breathes out, listening to the ticking clock on the wall. Closer and closer he gets to stepping foot on Vormir. With every moment the hand passes through the hour, he nears the day he'll — he'll bring her back. He won't let that mountain keep what isn't its to keep. And yet... Here was someone — someone who held someone as dear as he held his lover, pleading with her fiery gaze to keep them safe. "... How about this? I promise you that I will die before I let  _anything_ happen to the kid."  
  
It's the best he can do. He can't swear that Lil' Pete'll be safe and sound out there. Space is fucking scary if you're not careful.  
  
And reckless, wild things happen there.  
  
But he can at least put his own head on the chopping block, and hope its enough.   
  
She squeezes her eyes shut like the words in her throat are hurting her.  
  
"Then it's settled. Please, take care of my son."


	22. Chapter 22

"You've got to be fucking  _kidding_ me, Pete."  
  
Tony admits, it's not his  _best_ reaction to something he doesn't like, but it  _does_ fall into a long laundry list of poor reactions to situations out of his control. He blamed himself, of course, for not knowing sooner; being all over the globe, dealing with fallout from Thanos and his attempt at universal devastation, it wasn't exactly his easiest role as an Avenger. He hadn't been around enough, hadn't been persistent in his help with Peter, in making sure he was really okay — yeah, no, he failed the kid, and that must be why he's got him cornered on the balcony, telling him that he's ditching Earth for space. For fucking  _space_. It doesn't matter how short the visit would be — it's  _fucking space_. Tony's nightmare zone, the place that snaps him awake too many nights. Those stars looking back at you, telling you how insignificant your life is, how easy it would be to be utterly swept away in the nothing that exists beyond the Earth's atmosphere—  
  
Pete wants to go into that. Willingly.  _Again_.  
  
And yet here the kid stands, looking so patient as he waits for Tony to stop pacing and start saying every version of ' _no_ ' he's got tucked in the pockets of his really expensive pants. His arm is still in a cast, because he's not a spiderling with healing powers, and he feels out of breath as he storms left and right. "Did you forget the last time you didn't listen to me when I said stay home? You ended up billions of years away from Earth—"  
  
"—fighting for the people I love," Peter says.  
  
"—to die for nothing, because of that ugly purple asshat!"  
  
"It wasn't  _nothing_. Dr. Strange knew it wasn't nothing. It was all for something bigger than us — it was to win in the end."  
  
"Dr. Strange is a dick who owes me twenty bucks."  
  
"Mr.  _Stark_ —"  
  
"I  _lost_ you there, and you're just  _cheerfully_ telling me you're going  _back_!" His voice raises more than he'd wanted, biting and full of desperation and anger that he'd wanted to keep at bay, but there's no reversing it now; lucky him, Peter brings out the most uncoordinated retorts from him when it comes to a battle of arguments and wills. Breathing sharply and running a free hand over his scalp, he tries to devise some sort of method in which this will end in his favor. Then he looks at him sharply and gives the most immature reaction he can scrounge up: "You go with them, I'm revoking your status as Avenger, right here, right now."  
  
"No you're not," Peter says plainly.   
  
He's already dealt with this conversation once before, with May. The little bastard's had practice.  
  
"I'm disowning you right on the fucking spot!"  
  
Peter shakes his head.  
  
"I'll take your fancy iron suit."  
  
The kid shrugs. Tony nearly sees red at the casual way in which he does, and slaps his hand on the railing so hard he kind of regrets it, with the way the bones in his hand rattle. He feels like a parent who is slowly losing all control of their stronghold and, consequently, blood pressure. He needs a doctor. He needs a priest to exorcise him and his mentee. Or maybe just a priest to put him in an early grave, because if there's no way to convince him to  _stay_ —  
  
"Peter, take you take this  _seriously_ for five seconds; you didn't think this through long enough, and you should know better than to launch yourself to the  _one_ place where you got killed by a psychopath with a magic glove."  
  
"As opposed to  _not_ launching myself into space back then and dying here on earth instead, in some museum? That wasn't on  _you_."   
  
" _Wasn't it, though_?" The silence that follows is damning. "... I was supposed to keep you and everyone else safe; that was my job as a hero."  
  
"And you did keep everyone safe. If you and the others hadn't kept fighting for us, we wouldn't  _be_ here. You know that. I know you do, even if you're beating yourself up over it. You're not to blame for this, Mr. Stark."  
  
"No, nonono, don't turn this into some  _ass_ -patting session. I'm not letting you mess up what you just got back. Can't you just — let them report back the news? Can't you let yourself rest and get better?"  
  
"This is how I get better. And you don't have much of a choice in what I do, sir. May said I can go, Quill said I can go — And you're not my guardian." Something about that stings more than it should. Because the kid's right; as much as he feels like he's Peter's... something, he knows that it's something mutually crafted between them, a fantasy that both are more than happy to indulge in. Peter needed a father figure. Tony slowly wanted a kid. In a way, it culminated into Morgan, his Pepperoni, and for that he can never owe Peter enough. So no. No, Peter is not his child. He's his protégé, his teammate, his friend, his family, a reason to keep fighting — but he's also a Parker, his own person. The longer they talk, the more Tony realizes it's a losing battle on his end. And it hurts.   
  
"I'm doing this. But I want to do this knowing you've got my back," Peter says. He leans against the railing, looking up at a dimming skyline. One, maybe two, stars barely twinkle through the New York City skyline. This city's always been so  _bright_. For Tony, it's always cut through the infinite, twinkling danger above like a knife, up until the sky was punctured by the Tesseract. "I know you hate space. And it freaks you out. And now I  _get_ it — honestly, I get it, 100%. When I think of going out there, it makes me break out in this cold sweat, and I feel like I'm gonna throw up all over the place. I feel like running and screaming and hiding under a blanket somewhere until someone else goes instead."  
  
"Then  _why_?"  
  
"Because you're scared of it, but you went, too." Peter turns, one hand on the rail. He seems... confident. Less exhausted. "My uncle, he always loved that old saying: that being brave isn't about being  _fearless_ — it's about being terrified as hell but doing what's right anyway. That's how Ben lived, and that's how  _you_ lived all this time as Iron Man. You knew that Dr. Strange was in danger, and that Thanos couldn't have that stone, so you made the choice to get on that ship and face your fears.  _That's_ bravery.  _That's_ being a bad ass. And that's what I gotta aim to be.   
  
"I do those things so nobody else has to, kid," Tony says miserably.  
  
"But you shouldn't have do it alone. None of us should. I'm not going to, either, not by myself." Peter takes one glance back up, like his stare could pierce the cosmos and see someone else looking back; he knows just who it'd be, too. "Like you said, back when that ferry almost sank: you wanted me to be better, right? I've always tried to be 'better' enough for you. So... you're gonna see me off, and you're totally gonna like it, or else."  
  
There's not a lot of heat behind that, but Tony shakes his head with an exasperated smile anyway.  
  
"When'd you get such a backbone, underoos?"  
  
"I'm pretty sure I had to go through a few bad-fitting ones first."  
  
Tony's scared that he'll have to miss this again, this back and forth banter, this reminder that the meek boy at school is actually sharp-tongued and full of sass. And you know what? Fuck the other introspective — Peter's his kid. His adoptive weird kid that he only gets rights to on the weekends. He wants him to do well, and he wants him to grow up strong, and he wants him to have whatever the hell he wants out of life. He wants him to be around for Morgan as she grows up, so she can see what a real hero's like. He wants Pete to find himself a partner and maybe retire someday feeling accomplished and full of amazing and shitty experiences that shape him into something he can be glad to have been a part of. If there's anything Tony wants from the rest of his life, it's this: to make Pepper and Morgan happy, and to watch Peter Parker become a force to be reckoned with.  
  
He wraps his hand around Peter's shoulders and rubs his arm, as they stand side by side. Peter breathes out softly like it's an absolutely perfect moment, but Tony's terrified. "I'm just scared of losing you again, kid."  
  
"I know. But I feel good." He turns his gaze to Tony with some measure of serenity. "Really. I feel great. When May said I could go, I slept a whole eight hours straight. No nightmares, no restless legs. No nothing. Just — peace. I don't know if Gamora's going to be there, and it's gonna hurt like hell if I can't... see her again."  
  
He has to stop, swallow hard, and press on. "But this is good. This is me, saying goodbye to her, and to that part of my life."  
  
Tony almost apologizes to him, that he has to already feel like this; that he already has to learn how to let go after being shoveled so much shit. But the kid's done it before, hasn't he? With his parents. With his uncle. And now with someone who had been his sole inspiration for fighting, in that other world.   
  
Instead he just squeezes the kid. He can't stop Pete, but he can damn well keep him going.  
  
"You're sounding pretty adult there."  
  
Peter grins and looks down, sheepish but relieved. "Yeah, well. I'm still a kid. So sayeth the federal law where we're all starting at the age we died being. But I like to think my extra time around has kind of given me a little more perspective..." His nose wrinkles, and he looks troubled for a moment. "God, I'm gonna have so much homework when I get back.  _So much homework_."  
  
"Rethinking your plan?"  
  
"Heh. No way."  
  
"... I'm sorry I threatened to take your cool suit."  
  
"... Eh, my pajamas would've worked fine." He reaches around Tony's waist, hugging him back. He's about to say something that'll be sappy and sentimental, and Tony's actually gonna do him the favor of not downplaying it for once. Peter says, "Y'know, I know you're not my dad, but sometimes you sure feel like one."   
  
A pause.  
  
Peter adds with impeccable Stark delivery: "Or maybe a like a grandpa."  
  
_Ha_.   
  
Tony loves his kids.

* * *

  
  
The goodbye is almost a farewell party, if Peter didn't know any better. A ton of the team managed to see him off as the Guardians boarded the  _Benatar_ , and it takes everything in him not to make a departing _Titanic_ joke to someone in the general vicinity. Maybe not the best idea, to freak out May or Tony or Ned with that kind of dark humor. Instead he wraps his arms around his aunt and lets her hold him until she's ready to let go; at first he thinks they may be there all day, or that this was how she was planning to keep him from ever leaving — a sort of loophole in the written contract, so to speak. But then she pulls away, eyes watery.  
  
"Take care of yourself, okay? Come back alive and well this time, or I'll build a ship and come for whoever's screwing that up. Got it?"  
  
Peter nods, giving her his most placating, honest smile. As if he's just going on some field trip. "I will. I'll be careful."  
  
Ned holds him just as long — he'd made another long trip just for this, but he said missing his chemistry quiz was sure the hell worth it — and Peter rubs circles in his friend's back as he works through the motions. It's funny, but it's mostly just... him comforting _them_ , and that's _okay_. He's a little scared of facing the vast darkness of space, but he's not scared of dying. He's not scared of getting hurt. He's just scared of hurting  _them_. Despite evidence to the contrary spanning over six months back, he had never wanted to be a burden on their hearts. Not ever.   
  
When May worries, he worries. It's the natural order.   
  
"I'll see you real soon," he tells Ned, clasping his hand. It's easy to remember their handshake. It's all muscle memory. _Natural_.  
  
"Bring me back a space souvenir," Ned demands. "Something  _bad ass_. And get your friend back so I can meet this super cool chick proper."  
  
"You got it."  
  
It's all a blur, honestly, and he feels bursting with emotion at the multitudes of people who meet him halfway: for hugs, for handshakes, for a gentle ribbing, for Rhodes and Nat's pinching and teasing, Dr. Banner's hands gripping his, or the way Wanda sweeps his bangs a little before pressing a familial kiss to the crown of his head; Morgan cries and cries, and Peter tries to bounce her in his arms and lift her spirits, but she can only seem to mourn the temporary loss of her playtime buddy — and her Spider-Man, which makes his cheeks flush and his heart feel too full. There are so many people here who he cares about. There's so many who seem to be rooting for him — people he can't possibly let down now. He's gonna be back. He's _gotta_  come back. Because this is his team now, and they all worked so hard to pull him back into the living...

How could he possibly ruin all their hard work?

"... I'll see you all when I get back." He pauses on the ramp, reconsidering something with a mischievous grin before turning around and pointing towards the small crowd. "And by the way, before I forget — it was  _totally_ James Buchanan who let me fall over and bust open my chin, not Sam Wilson!" The small crowd of heroes go wild with laughter and all of the worry eases immediately.  
  
"You  _traitor_!" Bucky huffs, as Sam yells in victory.   
  
"I freaking told y'all bastards I was innocent! I  _told_ you!"  
  
Inside the ship, Tony and Steve stand alongside Quill as he points out the pathway through the systems that will take them and the Soul Stone to Vormir; Mr. Stark never leaves anything to chance, when it comes to displacing the stones properly, so Peter's not surprised he's making the Star-Lord pull up his fancy high-tech maps that rival Starkphones. 

He slings his gym bag off his shoulder to carry at his side instead, dabbing away unshed tears before anyone can call him out on it. Or so he tries, anyway, but a soft hand runs along the nape of his neck, startling him into a yelp that gets everyone's attention immediately. A pair of antenna hover in the peripheral of his vision before he whips around to see Mantis with concern in her brow.  
  
"You are sad! You are trying not to cry!"  
  
"I'm —  I'm fine!" Peter practically squawks. He's probably gone red, but Mr. Stark just shakes his head wistfully.   
  
Steve says, "Hey, it's all good, kid; nothing wrong with feeling something," and smiles sympathetically as he approaches, offering Peter a hug that he wastes no time in taking. Under the loud protection of Quill and Tony's grumbling about estimated times of return, Peter leans in a little and passes a message on to the good Captain while he's in his firm grip.  
  
"I know I already told Pepper," he whispers, "But... Watch out for Mr. Stark for me, okay? He freaks out about everything too much."  
  
"Roger that, kid. You don't even need to say it. I got you covered."  
  
"Ummm, what're you two conspiring about over there?" Tony calls out. Peter and Steve just shrug in unison. They'll take their words to the grave, if it'll avoid Tony trying vainly to denounce that he needs people looking out for him. The billionaire just huffs, throwing his hands up before approaching his mentee. "Alright, _fine_ , don't tell me. Anyway, I've got something you probably don't want to leave without, young buck; wrist out, palm up, please."

Peter obeys with little fanfare, though his eyebrow is raising high with uncertainty.

"You're not about to cuff me to you or something so I can't go, are you?"   
  
"Cute, but no. Trying to let go of my crippling anxiety at leaving you with _Mr. 50% Stupid_ over there."  
  
" _Hey,_ " Quill snipes.  
  
Tony ignores him, slapping on a familiar yet entirely new web-slinger to Peter's wrist. It's snug and metallic, running across his skin with that bleeding tech that makes up the Iron Man and Iron Spider suit. This is his suit, the one he'd used to fight Thanos. The one that he used to fight Maw and defend Mr. Stark's life. It didn't feel like his, not really; not until this moment, when Tony closes his palm over the bracelet and Peter's wrist sacredly. Peter glances from the sophisticated equipment to Tony with wide, interested eyes, but he just grins. " _Hey_ , you really think I wasn't going to suit you up for this? All you need to do is ask it to launch your suit, or tap in the commands, and it'll do it without delay. Only, you know. The suit will be on this ship and not billions of light-years from earth, so don't worry about a long wait-time."

"Wow," he breathes. He studies it with a sharp interest now, the kind that maybe would have gotten him the Stark Internship in another life. The real one that didn't involve big battles in Germany — not that he'd trade that for the world now.  
  
Mr. Stark watches him patiently, and asks, "Last chance for you to stay on the ground — yes or no?"  
  
"... No. I think I've been on the ground long enough." He smiles, all soft edges. "... Thank you, Mr. Stark."  
  
"I'm getting some _major_ deja vu here, kiddo," his mentor says, before giving him one last hug goodbye. "You're a good man, Pete. Just don't let it get to your head. And you be damn sure you send video messages every chance you get, so your weirdly attractive aunt doesn't get twenty years older in the span of a month from stress."  
  
Rocket calls from the pilot's chair, "How about _you_ keep this kid, and we get to take _Morgan_ on adventures instead?"   
  
Tony rolls his eyes and doesn't dignify it with an answer.

But Peter kind of loves the visual of a three-year-old space pirate.

It's hard to watch Mr. Stark go, when it's time to step off the ship and back onto the grassy knoll, all without him. It's hard to move to the cockpit and look out that big window there, seeing everyone bidding them goodbye —  for just a short while. It's hard to press his hand to the glass and know that he's leaving this life behind, albeit temporarily, because as much as living as he was _hurt_ , living without them for even a small window of time was something he'd really have to take some effort getting used to.

He's nervous. He's unsure of the future. But he's gonna do it, without hesitation. May waves at him with a smile and he can read her lips over the sounds of jump-starting engines:  _'I love you.'_  
  
He loves her, too.  
  
He loves 'em all.   
  
They float higher and higher still, passing over the many towering buildings that make up New York City in their fast acceleration. It's funny, but he's rarely ever had a chance to enjoy it from the _top_ view; he's gotten to swing among the high-risers, and he's gotten to look down on Queens in a moment of blinding panic, be it on a flying airplane or a speeding alien spacecraft, but it's the first real moment he's looked back down and seen a peaceful scene of his home from on high. He has to double-take, and while there's no one there, he could have sworn he'd seen an ever-watching figure in a red cloak, giving his own quiet goodbye from atop the old Avenger's tower. Maybe the sparks of light from a there-and-gone portal had been his imagination. He grins, because he knows that's a load of shit.   
  
As they burst through clouds and layers of atmosphere, Peter at least can say he's quietly scared — but running into the smoke and fire  _anyway_.  
  
And  _that_ , as Ben says, is bravery.

"I'll see you all real soon," he whispers to the Earth.


	23. Chapter 23

( _"I promise," Happy says, begrudgingly, "I'll answer every text you send me. Just try not to go overboard with it."_ )  
  
It's kind of weird, being on the  _Benatar_. Mostly because he couldn't  _remember_ the initial visit he'd had to the ship when they left Titan all those months ago; it's kind of like going back to your elementary school classroom and having no memory of the place? But there's still this weird feeling of  _nostalgia_ , for something you know you were on but have no recollection of? It's really bizarre. But his awe is pretty quickly replaced by regret and panic and all kinds of terrible feelings he knows are extremely temporary — he looks out the windows and sees the inky blackness beyond, painted with stars that flicker-flash and remind him of isolation and death. He practices some of the meditation techniques Gamora and Bruce showed him, but his palms still sweat, and his stomach still churns.   
  
But he can't give up; he  _has_ to face it all, or he'll never be okay. It's either sink or swim, and he's kicking his legs and flailing his hands until he can get to the shore. All of these panicked emotions are under the surface, hidden in the way his hand clenches around the armrest of his seat, or the way his voice is too quick and thready when he replies to anything aimed at him. The others are so _calm_. This is home to them, this never-ending expanse that threatens to engulf Peter whole—  
  
He feels the too familiar foam covering of headphones as they come over the crown of his head and rest on either side, not for the first time. Fleetwood Mac croons in his ears as Quill carefully presses the zune into his hand; he had listened to this band a lot, over the last six months, because Big Pete had not hesitated to do this very thing again and again and again. Quill doesn't say anything — he just lets the music do the talking as he takes his mantle as captain in the front seat. Peter hums the words, and slowly,  _slowly_ , the  _vastness_ of space isn't quite as terrifying.   
  
( _"You need to be more careful," Bucky says gruffly, "If you're gonna walk around the place, you need to at least know where steps are. C'mon."_ )  
  
He'll survive.  
  
They contact Nebula and let her know to meet them at the mountain, sending appropriate directions through the easiest jump points. It's all another language to Peter, the concept of giving directions in a place that is endless and without an up or down, without paved roads or road signs. Hesitantly, he pulls the headphones down to listen with keen interest, feeling a little less nauseous now that he's had time to adjust and reel himself in. "How far do you think it is, in — jumps? Is it gonna be a while?"  
  
"Aaaah, 'bout two weeks to get there. Probably a little shorter to get back to your gross wet planet; the time and space thing is a little wonky, and we're tryin' to be covert since we've got a creepy death stone in the trunk," Rocket says. "You get somewhere slow, and you get somewhere fast, and you pray Quill doesn't bust out the same five songs for the whole trip."   
  
Peter's brows raise. "My uncle used to be like that. I mean, he'd play a song he liked to death."  
  
"Your uncle and Quill need to broaden their horizons."  
  
Peter doesn't bother correcting Rocket about his uncle — sometimes he just forgets that not everyone knows he's without Ben now, and that's okay, because he'd rather not sour the easy-going mood in the ship. It's been hard on all of them, and they're all quietly worried, he can tell. Besides, he's calmed down a lot from his near panic attack, and it feels kind of nice and _different_ , being able to talk about Ben like he's still alive. Anyways. He holds out the dented but functional music player he'd had in his gym bag, letting the dude hold it in his cute fuzzy hands. "That kinda comes over a Zune.  _The iPod Nano, fifth generation._  It's got, like, over three-thousand songs on it. Most of it is stuff Ben likes, so I bet you guys'll like it, too."  
  
Big Pete pokes his head out from seemingly nowhere. "IPod- _what_ -now?"  
  
They spend the next hour burning through the soundtrack to  _Oklahoma_ , funnily enough. Something about it sparks some sort of memory in Big Pete, and he seems happier than he has in a long while. "Oh, what a beautiful  _moooornin_ '," he sings, when Mantis is dozing in her seat and Rocket's vanished to work on something or another. "Oh, what a beautiful  _daaaay_. I got a beautiful  _feelin_ ' — everything's goin' my  _way_."   
  
" _I am Groot,_ " the petulant tree child grumbles.  
  
"What do you mean? I have a  _wonderful_ singing voice," Quill replies.  
  
( _"You could get better with time... You have that, you know. Time." Natasha says._ )  
  
Peter's eyes begin to drift shut, even despite his ever-present insomnia, and Drax nudges him into standing from one of the cockpit seats. He only just realizes an hour's time has passed and most of the others are gone to bed, now; Drax is left on guard with Groot, who has been flopped over in a chair playing a Gameboy for the last three hours. Peter can't help but get his own intense flashbacks to lazy Sundays with Ned's borrowed 3DS, and he smiles a little, wringing his hands as Drax motions him into one of the only open rooms with a bed.   
  
He sits down, unties one shoe blearily, and then his breath catches in his throat.   
  
This is Gamora's room.   
  
Gamora's unbreakable, shimmering whetstone sits beside her sheathed Godslayer on the table. Little silly knick-knacks from other planets adorn the dresser, betraying the usually no-nonsense visage she usually wore. An antique postcard from some alien planet with lovingly scribbled messages from Big Pete is half-hidden in a book written in a language he can't read. Something about the room feels too sacred, and for a moment he imagines Quill barging in behind Drax with outrage in his eyes and a fist clenched to threaten. But no such thing happens; Drax just watches him with a sort of solemness, arms folded over his chest. He can tell Peter's stupefied, that he's confused why anyone would let him disrupt this untouched memorial. 

"You were her friend in that place," Drax says. "It's only fitting you borrow her room, since there aren't any spares. At least until she is here to kick you out and force you to sleep on the table. Quill's only terms are that you don't disrupt anything in here. Or else he'll likely kick your ass. Or maybe punch it."  
  
Peter's not sure what to say. He settles for a weak, "Thank you."

( _"I love you, too," Gamora whispers, "And I'll never, not once, forget that."_ )

 

* * *

  
  
He has a... really hard time getting back to sleep, and it's not just because he's in the room of a friend who may or may not be lost forever. Laying over the covers, he stares at the metal roofing and listens to the overly loud rumbles of machinery — of the gears and electronic pulses of energy firing off deep inside the vessel. The others probably can't hear it, but  _he_ does. He hears the living metal of what is the only thing keeping them from a painful asphyxiation in space. If someone blasted a hole in the ship, they could get sucked out. They could freeze over, blood vessels bursting — no dust, though. Maybe that wouldn't be so bad, as long as it didn't hurt like it did before.  
  
To try and keep his mind focused, he ticks off all the facts he's learned over the years about space. Most astronauts become two inches taller over time, in the pull of gravity. Black holes are formed from the deaths of humongous stars and are capable of traveling to different points; even the tiniest one could rip apart Earth's solar system. Oh — and if two pieces of the same type of metal touch out here, they will bond and be permanently stuck together. And in space, no one can hear you scream—  
  
Okay, that last one was from a particular movie poster. He wonders if Quill watched  _Alien_.   
  
"Peter?" Mantis asks after him from the doorway. He sits up, probably looking pathetic at this point with how little he's actually dozed off in the last five hours (which felt more like one hour, maybe two max, but he can't keep track of time as well as he used to—). Mantis just smiles politely like she does so often, and offers like she has so many other times: "Would you like me to help you sleep?"   
  
"... You help people sleep so much. Who helps you when  _you_ need to sleep?"  
  
He doesn't expect a genuine answer to his little remark, but she's more than happy to deliver with zeal.  
  
"Well... Drax makes me warm ziborthhog milk, sometimes!" Peter can't help but grow wide-eyed at that, making a mental note to ask about that particular... milk-giving?... alien creature later. Mantis adds, "And other times, Groot will make a hammock with his arms!"

He huffs a surprised but pleased breath.

It's nice to see they're still taking care of each other, here, that Gamora being gone didn't completely erase their spirits. It was something she worried about a lot, back in the soul oasis: that they weren't okay, and not just because of her being dead, but because of what had happened to all of  _them_ , save for Rocket. Dying isn't easy. When people came back after, it wasn't just a happy little ending complete with confetti and dancing. People were still suffering. People still had to cope with losses that were nearly impossible to describe. Mothers were being given newborns who had vanished from their arms. People were coming back to life, only to learn someone they cared about passed away in that time from an accident, from an illness, from old age. 

Thanos did not save  _anyone_ from  _anything_. He tortured an entire universe for two years and happily sat in some rice field, patting himself on the back.  
  
Mantis just smiles a too-big smile, trying to distract Peter and his slow-growing frown. He realizes he's getting pulled back into his uglier thoughts, so he shakes his head, rubbing one eye.

"Sorry. I guess I kind of get in a mood."

"That is okay. It would be more concerning if you did not feel  _anything_. Your emotions are healthy."  
  
"Yeah, I guess that's true."  
  
"Unless you are murderous and ravenous for blood. Maybe not as healthy."  
  
He's startled into a laugh.  
  
( _"You deserve to be here as much as any of us, Peter," Pepper says._ )  
  
Mantis puts her hand to his head, and it's so  _unfairly_ easy to fade to black when her power hits him, like a hammer composed of energy. It's a nice and restful sleep;  _so_  restful, in fact, that time flicks across the front screen of the phone he has nestled in the sheets. It drifts through hours by the minute, minutes by the second. Maybe his quietly gnawing fear had drained him more than he realized. Maybe he just needed someone to hit him upside the head with a frying pan, to fix it — or, you know, put him to sleep with a softer and way less bruising touch. Either way, as he peels his eyes open, he feels a little bit better. The sounds of the ship, they're not as stifling, and the cold metal that wraps around him — like a cocoon many sizes too big — isn't as intimidating. He misses having earth under his feet and buildings to sling across, but he'll be okay. He stretches, breathes, and wanders toward the bathroom.

As he goes, he passes by the others, who are... all weirdly solemn and not particularly talkative. The easy feeling in his gut clenches back into something concerned, but when he catches his reflection in the mirror and hears the sudden roaring laughter behind him, he nearly dies of embarrassment. An assortment of doodles cover his face, none particularly appealing or attractive, and he covers a penned-on mustache with a mortified hand.

"You  _guys_!" he chirps indignantly.  
  
Rocket twirls a sharpie in his paw smugly from where he's sitting at the table. Drax points and laughs, as is his specialty, Peter's come to learn.

Mantis steps out, looks at Peter, and is troubled for all the wrong reasons. "Little Peter, you don't need facial hair like Big Peter to be special. You are wonderful even  _without_ your ability to grow anything on your face!"  
  
( _"I suppose I can accept us not being lost causes together," Wanda tells him. "Just promise me you will not go missing for so long again."_ )

 

* * *

  
Later in the week, Rocket lets him try some jet-pack armor on when they stop by a way station to replenish, and even if it kinda... chafes... it's still pretty cool to fly instead of swing for once. Not that he'd trade his way of things for the world; the sensation of free-falling into a swing? It's a kind of exhilaration that he never knew he'd wanted in his life. It makes him feel  _alive_ and  _powerful_. But still. Jet-packs. It's cool. It's distracting. And when he accidentally falls a few stories, he doesn't super die. Spider powers are handy like that, but everyone still had a hell of a time panicking until he sat up and gave a thumbs up.  
  
Peter supposes he's gotten used to the Guardians since then — no, more than that, they're pretty inspiring. It could be so easy, to sit in your self-pity, to be sad and miserable and unable to grin and bear it. Everyone's trying to keep a stiff upper lip and push onward, quietly anxious the closer they get to Vormir. But it's not like you can sit in the dark and suffer for the whole ride. It's not like in the movies, where people drink from a whiskey glass over a sad piano tune. He learned that the hard way, in the weeks that followed Ben's death. He remembers vividly the horror and guilt, when he finally smiled again.   
  
You think,  _no, no, that's not right, I'm not allowed to smile anymore_. Because  _they're_ not here with you. One time, he was totally fine browsing the magazine rack at the liquor store on the corner. The next moment, he was bunched up in his sweater crying, because Ben would never buy an issue of Time Magazine again. But you carry on, and you get sad sometimes, and you try your best. It's why when he finds Big Pete alone in Gamora's room, gripping the Godslayer to his chest and trying to wipe away his moment of weakness, Peter tries to keep the air light and understanding.

"You okay?" he breathes.

"Who, me?" Quill makes a sort of skeptical expression, lips nearly a grimace. "I'm peachy."

"... We're gonna get her back," Peter says, thinning his lips. "This has to work."

Quill sighs softly, nodding. Peter has a feeling the man wants to correct him, but maybe, like Peter, he's just not brave enough to face it. "Right. We'll get her back." He so very carefully places the sheathed blade on the dresser again, turning to look at the boy with something difficult to read in his eyes — guilt, maybe? Concern? Or maybe just sympathy pains and sadness and all the dumb human emotions he'd gotten saddled with. That 50%, you know; Peter can't help but wonder what the other 50% is supposed to be. Maybe someday he'll ask. "By the way, kid, I got something for ya."

"Me?" Peter says, pointing to himself, as if he wasn't clear enough.

"Do you see any other ' _ya's_ around?" But he waves him to take a seat on the bed, as he reaches down into one of the dressers. As Peter sits down beside his name-twin, he can't help but remember the very day Tony Stark had walked into his life, sat down on his twin bunk, and saddled him with a task and a passport for Germany. It was the day that would change _everything_. Almost as much as the spider bite did. 

When Quill sits back up, he holds out a box wrapped up in slightly crumpled wrapping paper, the loud and vibrant kind that he immediately recognizes as May's signature job. He reaches out and takes the strangely shaped gift, all rounded on top and flat on the bottom, and gives Quill a confused little look. "This is..."

"From your aunt, yeah. I was over at your place getting her blessing, and I saw you had a big-ass stack of presents just  _waiting_ on that desk. So, you know... I said it'd be a good idea if she sent one or two with us, so you had something to tie you to home. Or if you ever get bummed out and need a pick-me-up..." Quill clears his throat, working his lips to the side as he looks at his own feet. "... That kind of thing."

Peter brightens like a firefly at dawn as he looks at him, then hesitantly peels away the crinkling paper and red ribbon. Smooth glass greets his fingers.

He stares, his ears reddening while his eyes grow as big as saucers.

It's a snow globe, the kind a tourist would find at _I ♥ NY,_  or at some little kiosk while passing through Times Square; inside the sphere is the top portion of a gaggle of buildings, and  _NEW YORK CITY_  is sculpted and painted into the base of the souvenir; on the side of one of the ceramic buildings, there's without a shadow of a doubt a familiar figure in red and blue spandex. Just your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, tiny but clear enough that he startles Quill sideways when he leaps to his feet to squeal:  
  
"I'M ON NEW YORK MERCH!!"  
  
_In space, no one can hear you scream'_? As it turns out, in space, everyone on your  _ship_ can hear you scream. He almost cries, he's so happy.

The snow globe finds a home, for the next week, on the dresser beside Gamora's blade.

( _"When did you get so under my skin, kid?" Mr. Stark asks him._ )

* * *

 

And then they're there. 

It takes two weeks, one day, and three hours. A little over-schedule. But then they're landing among the sloping, dreary mountains of Vormir in an atmosphere that feels oppressive and bleak, even before they step off the  _Benatar_. Nobody's laughing, nobody's smiling; this is the place shrouded in nothing but pain and loss as far as they're concerned, and the way the sun eclipses behind the smoggy clouds above paints it a hellish barrage of colors that only serves to remind them. Peter's stomach is in knots and he feels like he's gonna hurl, because  _this_ is it.  _This_ is Vormir,  _this_ is where Thanos took Gamora,  _this_ is where—

Drax squeezes his shoulder, soothing some of the building pressure in his ribs that threatens to pour out. Groot mutters something that Peter doesn't quite catch — not that he really understands the language, try as he might — but Mantis takes the tree kid's hand in hers. "It is okay, Groot. Do not be afraid... Here, let me ease your fears." Peter realizes very quickly that the older Guardians are stepping up, are trying to protect the youngest members of the group, and so he puffs out his chest and quickly starts making his way toward the entrance of the mountain with Big Pete beside him. Rocket cradles his gattling gun as he follows; he's been ready to kill anything in his way since the day they left Earth. 

The metal container under Quill's arm houses the deadly colored stone, the very thing they'd lost their _darling, dearest ,dead_ to. Before they can get too far, though, they're startled to a stop by a cloaked, red-faced figure that drifts down from the crevice above like some angel of death. In the dimness of the blocked sunlight, Peter assumes it's face paint the man's smeared with — but as the being lingers closer, he can see with stunned clarity that it's a boogieman from the furthest memory of his childhood, the kind that Captain America would shield him and the rest of the world from: The Red Skull.

"Is that a creepy Nazi bad guy hovering in front of us?" Quill asks, startled.

"What is a Nazi?" Mantis adds.

"Holy shit," Peter can only curse.

"I take it you're here to bargain," Red Skull says dispassionately. "Peter Quill. Peter Parker. I will accompany you to the hill."

"Now wait a goddamn minute—!" Rocket barks, but Quill holds up a hand. 

' _Steady,_ ' it says.  _'It'll be okay._ '

Red Skull turns and leaves no room for further conversation, even if Rocket's insults are at the tip of his tongue. The monstrous being just looks back  _knowingly_ , and Peter swallows hard in the presence of real evil drifting up an endless looking set of stairs before him.  _God_ , he's gonna have something to tell Mr. Rogers later. And as much as his feet feel heavy at the prospect of listening to the figure, he can only think of the fact that Gamora stood at these very steps once, trailing after a genocidal monster who would soon be her demise. He's walking where she's walked, and with that, he's able to force himself to follow Quill — Quill, who doesn't hesitate to move. 

( _Ned mumbles, "Don't leave again."_ )

The path is long and winding, and Red Skull takes his time explaining the eerie details of their visit, and of his role here in Vormir, and of the wisdom locked away within the stone. At some point, Quill's hand carefully settles onto Peter's shoulder as Drax's had. He doesn't look at him, feeling pale and small in this place. Something in his gut is twisting; something in his body is crying out, telling him to run. To panic. To scream. It's like Titan all over again. Something here is dangerous. Something here is poisonous, ruinous, and it aims to hurt him and the people he loves. "You okay, Pete?" Quill asks him.

"I—"  _Don't feel good._  "I'm alright."

He doesn't think Big Pete believes him, but it's too late to turn back now. When they've reached the great crest housing a dreadful precipice between two towering rock monoliths, the specter-like entity turns to face them. "The Soul Stone called back to its  _home_ , when it knew it was returning. You see, it has its  _own_ will — it's own mind, and in a sense, it will always be unique, beyond that of the other Infinity Stones. It knew the once celestial  _Peter Jason Quill_  was coming to seek out a  _bargain_. A  _price_. One that Ego attempted, so very long ago."

"Ego?" Quill breathes, stunned.

"Who's Ego?" Peter asks, but the man says nothing.  

Red Skull replies, "A way to cull his expansion... A way to absorb the souls across the galaxy. But he had no one to offer — no one he loved at his disposal, not anymore. And he had nothing he could offer in its place."

Peter sees the stiff lip of the mountain's cliffside. He steps a little closer, but doesn't dare look over its edge. Instead he glances at Quill, brow furrowed with worry as the Guardian curls his fingers tightly around the metal container choked in his grip. Quill tries not to be shaken as he growls, " _Look_ , Freddie  _Kruger_ , you can skip the ominous build-up here.  _Can_ you give us the girl in exchange for the stone or  _not_? Because that's all I've got for you right now."

"... It's not up to  _me_ , what is given and what isn't. It's the will of the Soul Stone — and the stone calls for blood. A  _life_ in exchange for another. One soul sacrificed to resurrect the lost." Suddenly, everything in Peter's mind grinds to a halt, like a record skipping on a vinyl player. They came in the hopes that returning the stone would be enough; suddenly, he can see it, can visualize the red leather coattails as Quill leaps from the cliff. Kills himself, for Gamora, because he's that kind of guy — would do anything for her. His spider senses are going haywire.  _Danger,_ they scream. _Run, Peter,_  they yell. _Don't look back, never look back,_ they beg. "It's too late to undo what Thanos has done. Gamora was his price — but the stone is willing to make an...  _exception_."

Quill's got this look in his eyes, and it scares him enough that he ignores the way his stomach clenches and nearly heaves. His legs feel like jelly but he moves and grabs Quill's sleeve with a fierce grip. " _Don't_."

Gamora will  _hate_  herself if Mr. Quill did something like that. If he traded himself for her. She'd never accept that. 

"Not for your life," the Red Skull tells Quill. His gnarled hand rises to point at Peter, where he grips onto Quill's arm. "The Soul Stone asks for the  _boy_."

( _"I was supposed to protect you," May pleads. "I'm supposed to protect you."_ )

"What?" Quill whispers. He slowly turns to look down at Peter, as the teenager releases his leather sleeve with stiffly curled fingers. 

Peter’s heart races. His heightened senses scream along his spine like little skittering, poisonous spiders.

Red Skull simply speaks, as the winds gust through and whip up his tattered cloak: 

"The boy, tied to your lost love, the bridge between her world and ours. A soul for a soul."

( _MJ leans forward and asks Peter, "But what is your heart telling you?"_ )


	24. Chapter 24

" _Ben_ , how come we keep going to all these baseball games when our team always loses?"   
  
Peter's switching out his Iron Man mask for a Mets cap as they head out the door. It's a sunny April sky in Queens, as pigeons prod the asphalt for crumbs by park benches. Peter walks just a  _little_  faster to try and keep up with his uncle's longer, stronger legs as they make their way down the sidewalk. He's never really had good stamina, but he's determined to  _not_  get carried on Ben's back like he's a baby this time. Maybe being puny had something to do with it, but... Peter was never really  _into_  sports — computers and movies and building stuff had always been a better time, and all of those are always much easier to handle than the roar of overeager fans, or the burn of sunlight directly overhead — but over time he's just learned to love it 'cus it's his and Ben's special thing.  
  
His dad liked the Mets a lot, too. Maybe that's just another reason he loves to go to these things.   
  
It's like he's doing something his dad would be happy about, you know? He misses his dad.   
  
"Well, Peter, it's not just about winning." Ben slows down, and Peter can tell he does it for him. "The underdogs are the best people to root for. They get beat down and beat down, but they  _never_  give up, you know what I mean? Their heart's in it, and sooner or later, that'll pay off. Besides, they don't  _always_  lose."  
  
Peter's not so sure about that. Sometimes there's really just no winning, like how he's always the last kid to finish the mile. Or how Jacob Rosenberg is always calling him really mean names that shouldn't get under his skin (but always do). He sniffs and adjusts his glasses as they slide a ways down his nose. His wild locks try to escape out from under his baseball cap, the springy style inherited from his father's side of the family. Maybe he's the underdog, and maybe he's the one who feels like he's never gonna win at something. Maybe he feels like the team people don't prefer to root for.   
  
"I wish I was any good at baseball," Peter grumbles.  
  
"Hey, work hard enough, you can be with the big leagues, kiddo."  
  
The train doors slide open for them, and they squeeze their way in; Ben lets Peter stand on one of the seats so he isn't lost in the sea of fellow travelers, since he's kind of puny, and he bounces on his heels a little as they fast approach the stadium. When he gets there, he ends up being carried the last stretch of the walk to the bleachers and wilts a little where he clings to his adoptive father's back. Part of him is annoyed that it comes to this, to him being picked up and dusted off and rescued by his uncle. Part of him is just glad he's there to do it — he just wishes he could do more, be more for his uncle. He knew he wanted better the day he watched Iron Man zip overhead.   
  
_Keep the faith,_  he thinks.  _Root for the underdogs. Never give up. Never accept the loss._  
  
And maybe Ben's right. Cus' the Mets open the new season at home with a  _7—1_ win against the Florida Marlins.   
  
The crowds go wild; Peter hoots and hollers and feels the thrill of victory as he waves his flag and spills his soda on the floor.  
  
He won't forget the moment Ben looks over at him, smiles, and says, "Always keep the faith, Pete. You get rewarded in the end."  
  
Years later, after Ben's gone, Peter goes to the Mets games in private — alone. He always buys a second seat. He always eats so much popcorn he thinks he'll never be able to floss his teeth clean after. And he always keeps that faith and waits for that due reward. The underdogs are the best people to root for, after all.  
  
... Besides, they don't  _always_  lose.  


* * *

  
  
" _No_."  
  
Peter stares in disbelief, his tongue heavy in his mouth, but Quill looks  _sure_  of himself — maybe even a little exasperated, a little annoyed, but no doubt utterly sure... Such a small, simple word, but it knocks the wind out of Peter's lungs. He had been standing here thinking of the cost, figuring up how likely (unlikely) it could be that Big Pete would grab him by the shirt collar and cast him down into the pit; if the exchange would  _count_ , if he just ran and leaped for it in a moment of reckless abandon, ruining so many promises; of how many people would lose Gamora versus how many would lose him — he was balancing their lives on a scale, knowing that it would be so much easier to lose some kid than her, the woman Quill loved, the one Quill would have died for in a heartbeat.  
  
And yet Quill stands there with an unreadable expression, the metal box containing the stone still tucked firmly under one arm, while Peter's heart is pounding against his ribs, chipping and shattering with each thump. 'No'? He looks at the man with all the wonder in his teary eyes, and he's... not sure if he's disappointed or not. 'No' means Gamora stays dead. 'No' means the Guardians'll never be whole again.'No' means that Peter failed his friend and left her in the bottom of some long, ugly pit after everything she'd done for him and everything he'd promised her in secrecy. He's confused and torn, because Gamora's life is not less than his.   
  
This isn't  _fair_. This isn't how this story  _ends_.  
  
"Big Pete?" he manages hoarsely.  
  
"No?" Red Skull parrots.  
  
"Yeah, you heard me." Quill works his jaw now, his eyes slowly flooding with fire. "I said no. Because here's the thing — I'm not some  _Nazi_  who got his nose put on a chopping block before he became a magic stone's little bitch. I'm  _not_  Ego. And I'm  _not_  Thanos." He turns, looking at Peter apologetically. "I'm a  _Guardian of the Galaxy_  — and a part-time Avenger, yeah; I'll slap that on my resume. And I don't trade innocent lives. Or friends. If this stone really thought I'd take after any of those screwed-up, monstrous  _dickbags_ , then it can keep its  _bargains_. I'd rather drown in misery and cheap alien booze for the rest of my life."   
  
A very short-lived hush falls over the three figures. Then Quill's face pinches with pain, just before he twists around on one foot.   
  
With one great heave he flings the metal container, before Peter can even so much as cry out to stop.  
  
"Take your shitty stone back!" Quill screams, face reddened and eyes burning hot with liquid emotion. Peter's hand reaches out, his wrists bare and his agility not nearly enough to turn back a clock. Down goes the stone in its box, further and further into the darkness. The teenager collapses at the ledge and watches it go, strong winds whipping curled bangs across his disbelieving eyes.  _No, no, no, it's over — Quill did it, he took the only chance and —_  
  
" _Interesting_ ," the Red Skull says, as he begins to fade. " _Very_  interesting, Peter Quill, for a visitor to avoid temptation..."  
  
Peter blinks his confusion.   
  
Way below him, the great, yawning mouth full of stone teeth rumbles, so much so that he has to grip the edge of the cliff with his adhesive palms to avoid toppling over by accident. A yellow light swallows everything down in the pit and then overfills it, spiraling up, up, up, into the sky. A ring of clean air expands high above them and shakes their bones.  _The Soul Stone's returning,_  he thinks queasily, squeezing his eyes shut. The cold clutching cloth of defeat wraps around his shoulders like a terrible cape and, breathless, he drops his head and chokes on a sob that nearly triggers more. Part of him wishes that Big Pete had been a worse person, a colder person.   
  
It's an ugly thought. A not very nice one. He's sorry, he's just so sorry—  
  
"Just what it was looking for," Red Skull's voice hums. "The stone's  _pleased_."  
  
"Peter!" Quill calls out and grabs his shoulders. It's only then that the boy realizes the light is getting  _stronger_  and  _hotter_  and more  _overwhelming_. It sweeps through the muggy sky of the planet and leaves everything impossibly  _white,_  so that all he can feel for a moment is Quill's hands curling in the fabric of his cheap jacket. The Guardian jerks him backwards and away from the long fall, closer to the shuddering exit among jagged rocks. He couldn't see. He feels like he's been blinded as some punishment for not being  _enough_.  
  
As the light begins to lessen and the mountain air cools the sweat on their brows, he hears feet scuff the earth in front of them.   
  
" _Peter_."  
  
The voice almost doesn't register, because it feels like a fiction. Like some great mirage, or a lie someone told to soothe a wounded soul. But he rubs his face and his sight comes back to him, and between the spaces of his fingers, he sees dark hair that's tinged with magenta. And then a green-skinned face materializes from the sunspots in his eyes right after that, a face that looks an awful lot like—  
  
" _Gamora?_ " Quill gasps.   
  
None of them can move for a moment, because it doesn't feel  _real_  enough yet. If they budge, does it break the illusion? Does it cast her back into the nothing, or leave them empty-handed once again? Is this like some great gasp, some last reminder of what they couldn't have, before it was yanked away right in front of them? But no — the howling mountain air doesn't shift into ominous shades of gray, and Gamora looks at shaking hands that stay solid. A tear drips down from the corner of her eye, along her nose. It looks — so real.   
  
Peter's spider sense had slid to a crashing halt. There's no fear. No panic. No urge to run. He stands there with lead-heavy feet, unsure, but this much is true: the danger has settled, and his friend is standing in front of them. Alive. Returned. Quill is running forward like his life's depending on it and throws his arms around her, probably hard enough to bruise a normal man. His back vibrates with untamed emotion as Gamora's arms slide around his wide chest to embrace him back. Quill weeps, "Gamora, I'm here. I  _got_  you. Oooh,  _god_ , I take it all back. I take it back about the shitty stone." He laughs a little manically, holding her cheeks in his hands. " _I love you_."   
  
"You're ridiculous," she says, voice trembling, pressing her lips into his.   
  
Peter snaps out of his staring spell enough to fluster, looking left and right and down—  
  
And then he's violently startled by the sharp, ugly wailing that sets off behind him; Groot comes storming by with outstretched arms, his near inconsolable weeping muffled into Gamora's hair as he wraps himself around her and Quill. Rocket drops the heavy weapon in his hand, and it hits the hard surface of the outcropping mighty  _clang_  as he rushes in. Drax and Mantis are not far behind him, sounds of relief and gasps of happy surprise mingling. Nebula appears like a ghost herself, as she always does; she walks with purpose, shouldering into the crowd to embrace and grip her sister so tightly she may never let go. Peter can barely even see Gamora anymore between the hurried bodies that form a protective shield around her, their arms like rope that tether her to safety.  
  
The ecstatic voices are a song on Peter's ears. As he stands before the scene, a slow and disbelieving smile finally spreads across his face.   
  
_Sometimes people come back,_  he thinks. He came back, after all. An empty place in his chest fills up with mortar, smoothed clean.  
  
For whatever reason he can't grasp, the stone bargained only itself.  
  
_Thank you_ , he thinks.  _Thank you, thank you_ —  
  
It takes some time before Gamora's hands part the great red sea that is her team. From the blossoming core of the Guardians of the Galaxy, she appears, and gives the boy a fond smile. It's only been a few weeks since he's seen it, but it also feels like it'd been an eternity. How strange it is, to feel homesick for so many places at once. How strange his life's become, when death is not the end. She holds her arms out with an exasperated look, and his legs  _finally_  seem to work, as he practically launches from where he stands and all but collapses into her. It feels so  _familiar_ , and yet so utterly  _unfamiliar_ , clinging to this flesh and blood person. His friend, his dearest friend, someone he thought about every day.  _Every_  day.   
  
"Hello, Peter Parker," she whispers softly. His chin quivers where he's hiding his face away.  
  
"I told you I couldn't leave you," he manages, smiling wide.  
  
Everyone's hands return, their warm bodies curling around the two of them like petals: Quill's hand sits around his shoulders; Drax's muscled arm curls around his head; Mantis' cool palms press the buttons of his spine; Rocket's fur tickles his cheek; Groot's bark scratches at his ribs; the cool metal of a robotic arm presses alongside his fleshy one.  
  
Nebula rolls her black eyes, and tries to pretend her face isn't streaked with wetness. "This is  _ridiculous_ , I want out."  
  
Crushed with Gamora in the middle, Peter gives up before he even tries to wriggle to freedom.  
  
Why bother, when this is such a nice place to be?   
  
Gamora huffs a breath at her sister and doesn't let him go; just leaves her hand there on the nape of his neck, warm and alive and real.   
  
_This is real._  
  
"Let's get off this garbage planet," she mutters.  
  
"Yeah, the decor's not really speakin' to me," Rocket quips.   
  
Peter's got  _so much_  to talk to Gamora about. They've  _all_  got so much to talk about with her, and he almost feels a little bad at how much they all huddle around her, like they're all planets in her orbit, going round and round as they chatter and banter with swelling emotion. Quill's hand never leaves Gamora's, interlocking their fingers with a gentle sort of ferocity that reminds her she's loved. He's sure he's got plenty to ask Big Pete about later in secret, about what had just happened on this mountain top, but he knows it's just better to count the win — to accept the victory for now, and maybe forever.  
  
Sometimes you don't need to ask  _why_. You just take what you're given.   
  
They walk down the hillside with a newfound peace, and more than that, a sense that the ugly universe Thanos had created was finally,  _truly_ righted. There'll be a lot to work out with Gamora, he's pretty sure: those feelings you get after coming back from the other side, they're heavy and difficult to sift through. He can only hope that being in solidarity with her will ease the burdens that come with resurrection — with suddenly being  _alive_ , and not a  _phantom_ , not a memory of someone else who outlived you. He's ready to help. He'll  _always_  be ready to help. She's got him, if it ever feels like too much, and if she ever needs someone to lean on and talk to about it.  
  
He figures the Guardians of the Galaxy have the other sore topics covered. __  
  
"I mean, I  _might_  have tossed you off the cliff, personally," Rocket says mid-conversation, and Gamora slaps him hard enough over the head that his ears flatten and he cowers under his fuzzy hands. "What?! He's  _durable_! He's got gross spider powers! I bet he could have handled that tumble, ain't I right, sticky-boy? Ow!  _Owowow_! Stop smacking me!"  
  
They're a little confused at how happy all this makes Peter. But  _god —_    
  
How  _good_  it feels, to breathe without those heavy, ruinous anvils pushing down into his chest.   
  
Quill starts up a familiar old song that blares through the speakers, as the  _Benatar_  ascends through the atmosphere and leaves behind the ugly world below. As Peter presses his hand to the glass window that separates him from the vast expansion of planets and stars, he feels unstoppable.  _Unafraid_. He hums to the music and feels at ease when he closes his eyes. The journey's half-done, but it feels like the ending's been written; MJ and Ned, May and Mr. Stark, they're all waiting for him. He's so excited to introduce them to Gamora. And — and he's ready to start his life up again.   
  
He'll take MJ to the cafe a bunch, and he'll visit Ned all the time. He'll play poker until he's actually good enough to add to the chip in his pocket, and he'll eat a lot of Sam's home-cooked meals in the good company of his soldier buddies.  He'll sit in his favorite chair. He'll hang out with Dr. Banner and gush about his work in the lab, and he'll call up Cassie and see how her algebra's doing. He'll open all his presents with May and go to another Mets game for Ben, and he'll be Morgan's superhero. He'll go see a fireworks show with Mr. Stark for  _real_ , one they can both actually enjoy.  
  
God, there's  _so_  much to do.  
  
He feels like there's not enough years in his life to do it, whether he lives another year or until he's a  _hundred_.  
  
But it's a good kind of restlessness, full of  _purpose_.  
  
"How does it feel, beating death?" Gamora asks him.   
  
The last time he'd seen her back in that oasis, she had been pressing her fingers into his wounds and begging for his forgivenness. Looking at her now, so at ease and with life in her eyes, he wants to cry a little. There's  _so_  much to say. But at least now they can sit in each other's company again and talk again — about anything, everything. Natasha was right. They'd got time. They've got however much of it to say what they need to say and do what they need to do, and he's gonna use it the  _right_  way now — by living in it properly again, not as a spectator, but like he did before the snap.  
  
He won't let his miracles pass him by. He won't let these rewards go unnoticed.  
  
"Who me? I've never felt so alive."  
  
Gamora scuffs her bony knuckles across his cheek, and he grins at her impishly from the table.   
  
"Guess who finally figured out what a  _ziborthhog_  is?"  
  
They set a course for  _home_.


	25. Epilogue

**_STARK INDUSTRIES | 5.334.607.3421.1.34.5_ **

**_  
VIDEO MESSAGE 004 DELIVERED._ **

**_  
LOADING... |_ **

  
  
"—okay, so don't get mad, but this S.O.S. came in halfway back to Earth, right? And since I'm Spider-Man, you know I couldn't just ignore it when someone was in trouble! So we landed the ship on a planet being overrun by weird magma... monsters? I was gonna say  _aliens_ , but then I realized  _I'm_  sort of an alien since I'm from another planet and I'm on theirs — It was just, it was  _so_  cool? I had to swing around and get a whole bunch of people to safety, and there were these huuuge lava bubbles that kept bursting way too close to the  _Benatar_ — Gamora was hanging out of the back of the ship, and she was holding onto  _Groot_ , and Groot was holding onto Rocket's  _tail_ , it was  _wild_.   
  
... Don't tell May! Um, but May, if you're watching this anyway... I'm 100% alright! I just have a few burns, but they're practically gone now. Like this one, on my elbow? Yeah. Totally not a problem. But that kind of led to us being chased around by these magma dudes in their weird cocoon ships, and we got a  _little_  off-course? So we might take a little longer than we thought. Especially since our ship got kinda busted up from rescuing a bunch of civilians from magma monsters. There's this place nearby that Rocket says he can gamble parts for, so that's pretty cool. I'm really bad at poker, but I mean, I can at least learn how to hustle pool... It's not technically illegal to hustle pool, right? Is it?   
  
Rocket's a really good instructor anyhow, so if I can learn how to make a bomb and a shiv, I think I can handle a little space pool. How different from Earth pool can it be? Oh! And Mr. Stark, not that this is anything super critical, but how long can this suit survive being out in space? I haven't tried it yet, but I was thinking maybe I can... like... push the ship to the way-station? Maybe use my webs like towing cables? It reminds me of that time me and Ben had to push our car to the gas station once because the gauge in it is super busted...  
  
Speaking of cars, I definitely think I'm getting the hang of piloting a space craft. I don't drive it around by _myself_ or anything, but Quill and the others let me do some laps around a planet to practice for my driving test, ssssooo... What I'm _saying_ is maybe piloting a space ship is grounds for me to finally get a driver's license. Anyway... I miss you guys, but I'll be back super soon. Like, two more weeks, if things go right! And when I come back, I'll have to tell you about the  _meteor shower_  that ended up being  _poop rocks_ —"  
  
Tony and Pepper stare at the feed with slack jaws and wide eyes.  
  
They look at each other.  
  
"I can't show May this. _FRIDAY_ , hide this in a folder somewhere."  
  
Pepper stands up quickly. "I'm calling Thor to pick him up."  
  
Tony hefts Morgan under one arm and panics.   
  
"Call Thor. Perfect idea. Where  _is_  Thor? Does he even own a phone yet?"   
  
"He's owned  _five_  so far—"  
  
"I'm getting in my suit."  
  
"Do  _not_  try to blast into space again with your suit, or I'm  _divorcing_  you—"  
  
" _Morgan_ , sweetie, we're going to space to rescue Spider-Man."  
  
" _Nobody's going into space!_ "

 

 


End file.
